Of Memory and Scar
by Livrebel
Summary: Being haunted by a teenage Dark Lord who was supposed to be gone is hardly pleasant. Then again, when said Dark Lord's continued existence depends on Harry's own, he becomes an ally Harry would be a fool to ignore. Even if he's controlling and a dramaqueen with a penchant for sadism. Futur TomHarry. Opportunistic!Harry M for gore and violence in later chapters
1. Chapter 1 : Hunting

_Hello, welcome to my first story._

 _Please enjoy!_

 _Disclaimer : I do not own Harry Potter._

 _$Talking$_ = Parseltongue

* * *

Harry didn't know who he hated the most: Ron, for forcing him into this situation, or himself, for not having expected it (or, at least, for not having expected _something_ to happen) and prepared accordingly. Both mentally and strategically.

He had dropped his wand twice already because of his sweaty fingers twitching in anxiety. He had also sworn to himself to buy a wand holster first thing in the Summer Holidays, with waterproof shoes and warmer clothes (or, at least, to learn the spells to waterproof and to warm his clothes himself. If anything, it would be useful for Quidditch).

In the hypothetical case in which he survived his latest 'adventure', of course.

After ten minutes of walking and tripping every third step, he was wishing that he could strangle the Weasley girl if _she_ survived the night. She was ruining Hogwarts! What would he do if the school closed? Would he have to stay at the Dursleys' house for the whole year? He couldn't allow that!

And that was why he had gone to fetch Lockart instead of McGonagall when he had discovered that the stupid girl was lying down the Chamber, waiting for death: it would be easy to pin everything that went wrong on the useless man. Stunning Ron from behind had been easy and when the fraud had asked for answers Harry had not been willing to give...

Well, let's just say that Lockart had been a great source of inspiration with his little trick to gain fame quickly. He had casted the _Obliviate_ spell on the man... and discovered that it wasn't an easy spell to cast – it was a N.E.W.T.-level spell, after all.

Lockart's mind had been beyond healing after Harry had finally gotten the spell right and Harry considered it a lucky coincidence that he had managed to get a correct _Obliviate_ before his last spell completely destroyed Lockart's mind (though he _did_ casted a last bad, over-powered _Obliviate_ to finish the job). He had almost worried that he would have to try his hand at modifying Ron or Ginevra's memories – one badly done _Obliviate_ case was suspicious enough, but _two_? It would be like admitting that he was the one to blame. No, one 'accidental' case of obliviation was suspicious enough.

After Lockart had became nothing more than a drooling moron, Harry had picked up Ron's faulty wand and had carefully casted one _Stupefy_ and one _Obliviate_ on the ground, planting the necessary pieces of evidence for his cover-story if a _Priori Incantatem_ was ever used on Ron's wand – he did wonder if it would work on a broken wand, but didn't ponder on it too long as, if it didn't work, they would have to rely on his word and everything would still go on perfectly.

After all, Lockart was a fraud. Surely it wouldn't seem weird if he thought he could claim another story for his books at the price of two small _Obliviate_ s. Lockart wouldn't consider two Second Years as obstacles between him and his goal – he had tricked and bewitched stronger and more experienced witches and wizards to gain his fame, and wasn't that a feat? Who would suspect two students without their O.W.L.s to be more of a threat than someone who defeated a banshee (before their memories were modified, of course) ?

Apart from Dumbledore, who obviously thought that a First Year had enough training to fight the Dark Lord upfront, nobody would _think_ about Ron and Harry being anything but victims of Lockart's ambitious scheme. And Harry would be thought brave (read: reckless) for saving Ron's sister... or trying, if he 'happened' to fail.

Harry inwardly winced as he recalled the fraud's pained eyes as Harry removed years after years of memories from his mind. Harry's attempts at the memory spell had been painful at the beginning, but after half an hour of intense practice he had not been as horrible as he would have thought – he had assumed that it would take hours for him to learn the memory spell, but it seemed that _Obliviate_ was only a simplified form of a more advanced technique, despite still being an advance spell. He would need to research it later... maybe in a few nights if he could manage? Or else he would need to sneak into Diagon Alley during the summer to buy a couple of books.

With Lockart as an excuse, nobody would find it suspicious if Harry was curious about the spell. After all, it wasn't as if a below-average _Second Year_ could cast a _N.E.W.T.-level_ spell, right? Hermione was the talented one, not _Harry._ No, the only way _Harry_ could learn to cast the spell would be with intense training, if the _hero_ he was could even stomach the idea of breaking into someone else's mind. Even though Harry wasn't the _Harry_ people knew, it had still taken him quite some time to figure out the spell, and he was still far from having mastered it.

Time wasn't an issue, luckily, and Harry had not stressed over controlling the obliviation spell before Ron's sister's death. Earlier that year, Harry had stumbled upon a Third Year Ravenclaw's strange necklace that allowed him to go back in time and he had, multiple times that year, borrowed it (the Ravenclaw, one girl named Marietta Edgecombe, was extraordinarily stupid for a Raven and never noticed the necklace missing, which Harry considered as a continued permission to borrow it when he wanted to). He would give it back to her once he was done, of course, but until then he had used it to go back one hour so he would have better chances at getting Ginny back alive. Whether he would strangle her or not was still up to debate.

Another skull broke under his foot and Harry lost his balance, almost falling to his knees. _Again_. Surely there must be another entrance to the damned place? He somehow had problems picturing a proud Slytherin sliding down a slimly _pipe_ then walking across a field of dried _corpses_. Even Marcus Flint, with his lack of care of what was 'proper' during Quidditch, had a holier-than-thou attitude when it came to manners and what was acceptable for a Pureblood (and Harry doubted that anything _dirty_ or _slimly_ had anything to do with those, no matter what Ron said).

Of course, Harry could have brought his broom like he had the last few times he came down the Chamber, but he wasn't _supposed_ to know how it looked like down here. It was just...

What were the odds? Hermione decided (he was uncertain about that. Had Dumbledore put a spell on her or something? Like he did to make her choose that book that talked about Flamel and other subjects a muggleborn First Year couldn't possibly understand, no matter how smart they were?) to brew the Polyjuice in a bathroom that happened to be haunted by the ghost of the Slytherin monster's only known victim in Hogwarts' history – which happened to have been killed in that bathroom _during_ the strange diary-memory's studies at Hogwarts.

Once again... _What were the odds?_ A strange and self-thinking artefact suddenly appears – _in the same damned bathroom!_ – and the Chamber is reopened. Not to mention the fact that the original Tom Riddle had been the one to _knowingly_ frame Hagrid so Hogwarts wouldn't close. Really, was the damned Wizarding World _stupid?_ Or was it just that Dumbledore's (and other people's, Harry doubted Dumbledore could be responsible for a _whole community's_ ineptitude, though you never knew) throwing _Obliviate_ and other spells right, left and center that had rotted their brains?

Harry sighed as he came to a stop. His eyes ran over the greenish door to the Hall of the Chamber – the snakes were still there and were waiting for his command.

 _$Open$_ , Harry hissed at the door.

He tensed slightly and readied his wand as the door opened, slowly showing the pipe-like corridor that leaded to the Chamber's Hall. It was empty but Harry stayed cautious – there was a book down there that had kidnapped a First Year Gryffindor fan girl.

...not very impressive said like that, sure, but it did bad intentions a _nd_ a Basilisk at his beck and call, which was particularly bad. And Harry wasn't willing to run blind (or, well, any _blinder_ ) into danger no matter the old spells still working in him to 'protect Hogwarts'. The impulses he had felt last year to 'protect the Stone' and, before that, to 'discover the corridor's secrets', had left him a bitter taste in the mouth on top of their signature headaches. He wasn't willing to fight a deranged Dark Lord again, but the memory an insane Sixth Year didn't look so bad compared to the possible closure of Hogwarts, so he had not fought the spells as hard as he could have – as he _should_ have, really.

Of course it made Harry even warier, if only because it sounded so innocent, but he wasn't willing to back down.

If they took Hogwarts from him, he would have to go back to the Dursleys. Like, _all the time._ And he was sure that the 'right people' would take measures to 'protect him' – a.k.a. keep him prisoner in his relatives' house. It just wouldn't do. Just because he happened to have vanquished someone nobody else had bothered to try and destroy before didn't meant he didn't want freedom. No matter what Dumbledore wanted, he wouldn't let himself be controlled. He was a Gryffindor, yes, but he wasn't stupidly bold. He had simply known that Gryffindor was his best shot if he wanted a peaceful school life... _not that it had worked that well, right?_

If he had let the hat send him to Slytherin he would have been treated like a Dark Lord in training, as a Hufflepuff he would have been either a 'disgrace' or a soft guy who _would_ do _anything he could_ to help, and as a Ravenclaw... well, Harry was no bookworm and his intelligence was better off hidden, lest it made things more difficult for him. As a mediocre student and an oblivious person he would be under-estimated and wouldn't be watched in fear that he learnt something he wasn't supposed to know. This was how it had worked at his muggle school and this was how it worked at Hogwarts too.

He wished that he didn't have the Dursleys to thank for being so good at deceiving, faking and surviving. Because, despise all their flaws, they had been _thorough_ teachers in these subjects. He had learnt quickly not to show his cards early in the game or _else_.

Now, as a Gryffindor, he had almost all the freedom he needed. At least he had it before being dubbed the Heir of Slytherin and a Squib-hater, but this isolation had at least managed to give him some alone time. During those few moments he had no one to fool, no one to please and he could simply walk alone and in peace. As for the little bullies who dared hex him when they thought him vulnerable...

He remembered their faces and had looked up their names. He would bid his time and take revenge when they least expected it.

After a few minutes of walking on the wet floor of the tunnel, Harry finally arrived in the Hall. Giant statues of snakes greeted him and the walls and pools were greenish from to the small green fires here and there.

The Chamber must have been spectacular in another time, but Harry almost couldn't see it. The water damages were too important and it was obvious that Hogwarts' House Elves had no access to the place. It would give many of them grave depressions should they learn that they had neglected one of Hogwarts' most historical rooms, but Harry wasn't about to tell them about it. For one, the Chamber must have been isolated for a reason and, secondly, it would keep people from following the elves down here.

"Oh my", a girl's voice said, sounding both surprised and amused. Harry jumped in fright and turned toward the standing body of Ginevra Weasley – however her eyes weren't hers. Harry didn't know what eye color Ron's sister had, but he was pretty sure it wasn't blood red. No, he only knew _one_ person who had red eyes and he had hoped to disappear from Britain before meeting _him_ again. He wouldn't have minded never seeing _him_ again, too. Or never hearing about _him_ again. Or dying of old age before _he_ returned – he wouldn't have minded, really. _Really._

"V-Voldemort!?" Harry chocked. He was so shocked that he simply watched as his wand was pulled from his hand by some wandless spell and flew right into Ginny's hand. Silver sparks erupted at the tip of the wand, causing Harry to pale and the possessed girl to raised a surprised eyebrow.

"Interesting." The girl – no, Voldemort said. "What is it made of?"

Harry swallowed the lump that had suddenly appeared down his throat. He wasn't prepared for that. He didn't wanted to die... He blushed when Voldemort threw him an annoyed look, obviously not taking well at being ignored.

"H-holy and phoenix feather." Harry stammered. His voice broke as he started to speak and he cursed his body for going into puberty right when he was about to fight (and die?) with the Dark Lord Voldemort _again_. It made him sound weak and scared and, if the amused and condescending smile on Ginny's lips was anything to go by, he was humouring the possessing spirit quite a bit. Bad for his pride, good for his health, he supposed? "It's... It's your wand's brother wand. They both have the same Phoenix's tail feathers as a core."

"Mmm. Interesting." The possessed girl twirled the wand between her fingers while looking at it with curiosity. Then the red eyes were back on him and he flinched, again amusing the Dark Lord. " _Stupefy_."

Harry jumped out of the way and immediately started jumping around and feinting, not unlike a mad bunny on drugs, avoiding the now wordless spells thrown his way – it reminded him of that time when Dudley had gotten fake guns for his birthday, then shared them with his gang. When the Dark Lord finally figured that Harry wouldn't be hit easily, he spelled the ground frozen and caused Harry to fall on his knees – but again, Harry had been chased by Dudley's gang during winters so he knew how to handle icy floors.

"Will you just stay still!" The possessed girl finally hissed after two minutes of unproductive spell-casting.

Harry didn't reply, panting too hard, but he supposed that the question was a rhetoric one. He kept his wand in his line of vision, thinking that he could still continue the 'game' for another few minutes. He would've tried running for the door to get help, even if he had to use Lockart as a meat shield, but he wasn't willing to turn his back to a Dark Lord with a wand – had the Dark Lord been wandless, he might've taken his chance. He knew quite well that one second of inattention was all the possessing spirit needed to off him.

"Oh, well." At that Ginny's body fell on the ground, leaving the slightly blurred form of one Tom Riddle in her place. Harry rushed for his wand as Ginny fell, but had to throw himself backward when Voldemort's long fingers wrapped themselves around the wooden stick a second before it touched the ground. He slipped on the icy ground but managed to keep his balance on one knee, panicked eyes following his wand as it now pointed Ginny's unconscious body. "Now, will you stand still?"

Harry narrowed his eyes and snarled, jumping back to his feet and readying himself for the Dark Lord's next attack. "So you can have both of us at your mercy? I'm not that stupid!"

Amusement shone in the now darker red eyes. He, the confident bastard, thought that Harry was completely at his mercy anyway... and he might, _might_ , be right, but Harry wasn't about to admit it.

"Not _that_ stupid, mmm?" The red-eyed teenager chuckled. "At least you can figure that much, _hero_."

Harry blinked at the name, then made a decision. After all, he could have recognized a Slytherin's baiting while blind, body-bound and deaf. It had a certain vibe to it, like a special magic. But Harry wasn't brave enough to say that aloud, in fear of being called a sap.

Gryffindors didn't _do_ sappy. That was Hufflepuff.

Still, it wasn't Voldemort's usual style of baiting: last year's spirit had indeed been more focused on tempting him with sweet words and promises that Harry knew were false... But for an obviously teenager and _human-looking_ Voldemort, it seemed that House rivalry was still enjoyable. If this meant putting the guy in a good mood... and gaining a few more seconds to plan an escape... or simply being alive a bit longer... What harm could it do to humour him a little bit more?

"Well, yes. You can't help but catch idiocy in the Tower." Harry drawled in his best imitation of Malfoy's posh voice. "It's the red and gold, you know... It drains your brain cells."

Voldemort raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Is that so?" The teenager moved his wand ever-so-slightly, but the movement still caught Harry's eyes and he adjusted his position.

"Well, I think so." Harry continued in the same uncaring tone all the while eyeing the still moving wand. "Just take Dumbledore, for example... If all that gold had not rotten his brain, he wouldn't be wearing those horrible... _clothes_. He must've been blinded or traumatised so badly he went crazy."

Voldemort laughed _._ Actually _laughed_! Then his eyes landed on Harry with so much intensity that Harry literally felt a weight on his chest – it was difficult to breath... all of his thoughts vacated him... Were his knees shaking? "What about you, _hero_? Did the red and gold rotted you brain?"

Wha... what? Harry blinked owlishly, before forcibly bringing his wits back together and attempting to think of a proper reply. What were they talking about, again? Something about red and lions... Oh, right.

The idea he came out with brought an ironic smile on his lips. "I came here, didn't I?"

Riddle's face transformed in front of Harry's eyes: when he had looked angelic the second before, the bloodthirsty grin that instantly widened his lips made him look more like an animal than a human being.

A very dangerous, enraged and rabid animal.

"Yes, yes you did." Voldemort whispered in a slow and sweet voice, almost tender, that didn't quite fit with his feral expression.

Harry gulped loudly and yelped when the purple curse flew his way. It narrowedly missed and caused Harry to land harshly on his butt, but he wasted no time in rolling away when Voldemort started throwing more curses his way.

They danced around each other a little longer before annoyance won Voldemort again. "Enough!"

Harry froze in shock and fear, an occasion to curse him that the Dark Lord thankfully missed since he had his back turned on him and was now walking toward the giant statue of Slytherin in the middle of the Chamber. Harry took the opportunity for what it was and rushed toward Ginny's forgotten body, hoping to find her wand. He touched her cold skin and felt her weak pulse... and came across a small object he was surprised to find.

Why would Voldemort bring the diary with him? Wasn't the thing nothing more than a tool to open the Chamber? The Chamber was open, now, he didn't need it...

Or he did. Which meant that he had a weakness that Harry could hopefully take advantage of. He silently slipt the diary in his robe's pocket and continued his search for Ginny's wand, but it was curt short by Voldemort's sudden use of Parseltongue.

 _$Speak to me, Slytherin, Greatest of Hogwarts' Four!$_

Harry's eyes widened as the statue's mouth opened. He heard a slithering sound a second before he lowered his eyes on the ground, so very unwilling to meet a very old Basilisk's gaze. He had no desire to be turned to stone before becoming snake food – after all, he _was_ looking at the world through panels glass, like Colin.

 _$Kill him!$_ Voldemort ordered, pointing at a running Harry Potter who had every intentions of leaving behind a very helpless Ginevra Weasley to save his own hide. Ron would be upset, but hey... He'd just say he arrived too late or never found her... if he survived the damned thing, that is... something that wasn't looking very promising, right now...

"Shite, _shitshitshitshit_! Shite!" Harry whispered under his breath as he ran between two snake statues and hissed a low _open_ in Parseltongue to the wall – he made sure that Voldemort didn't heard him, it might give him a second or two that could very well save his life. He heard Voldemort gasp when he walked into the now untangible wall, before he hissed a louder _close_ behind himself. He started to look around what he had, a few months ago, discovered to be something alike a weaponry, but had stayed away from. The reason was written on the wall, right above the displayed weapons.

 _The Cursed Ones obey only to those of Slytherin_

He was pretty sure that he wasn't of Slytherin blood, unlike Tom Riddle, and, from what he had deduced from the writings on the wall, the weapons were linked to Slytherin's family or something. But, right now, he really didn't cared about what would happen to him should he touch one of the cursed blades – he was about to die, he was wandless, and so Slytherin's warning didn't bore as much weight as it had before.

Harry gave one quick look to the writtings on the wall before he ran toward his favorite weapon – one he had spend a long time looking at it with his hands dying to touch it. It was a short and thin katana-like sword, less than two feet long, and looked rather light and graceful. He didn't know why he liked the small thing better than the heavy claymore a few feet further (the one he was sure his housemates would have prefered), but he was well aware of his short and malnourished body. A heavy sword wouldn't be of any use to him anyway – and if he liked the shorter sword, then it was only a bonus because he doubt that a dagger (about the only other thing he could lift, nevermind use, in the weaponry) would be of use against a Basilisk.

Harry took a deep breath, well aware that he was wasting time. A sudden noise made him jump in fright and he quickly grabbed the small sword, before running away. The short katana burnt his hand and sent horrible jolts of pain up to his shoulder, but he ignored them. He used another hidden door to escape the weaponry and ran into a very muddy pipe that, if his memory was right, lead to the Master bedroom. He had no intentions of leading the Basilisk there as it was a dead end (meaning: he had not found the secret passage yet, since he was pretty sure that a Master bedroom was a very important place to have secret ways in and out of) so he turned into an unexplored pipe and hoped it wouldn't backfire on him.

It did. Oh-so-horribly.

Not even two meters away the pipe curved and stopped, blocked with rusty bars he had no hope of cutting with his short sword. Harry turned to jolt away but only saw the red of the Basilisk's open mouth

 _trying to eat him whole fuck he was small enough to fit in its mouth he will die no matter what he sure as hell wouldn't die alone oh god why did he had to play hero please oh god please he didn't want to die please please_ _ **please**_

He swung his short sword into the Basilisk's mouth and right into its brain. His arm was already painfully dumb because of the sword's curse and he didn't felt much more pain when the Basilisk's fangs pierced his skin and flesh, at least not until the dying beast pulled its head out of the pipe, trembling and jerking as it died. A fang was still sunken into Harry's arm, right into his bicep, and pulling it out almost had Harry whimpering in pain as it teared bits of flesh on its way out. It seemed that the Basilisk's fang was broken, meaning his arm now looked like minced meat. His whole sleeve had also been ripped and Harry could _see_ the green venom moving in his veins as his heart pumped it through his body...

A few tears fell on his cheeks as the pain intensified, but he refused to make a sound.

Just like when Dudley and his gang managed to catch him, hold him back and happily beat the shit out of him, Harry wouldn't make a damned _sound_.

As he was about to let out more tears, Harry's eyes fell on the diary in his pocket. Hot rage filled him and he pulled the book out, opened it with his trembling fingers and, with the desesperation and anger of a dying person, stabbed the book with the same fang that had scealed his death.

It was only poetic to destroy Voldemort's weapon with the same thing that had destroyed his supposed vanquisher.

Harry wasn't sure, but, as his eyes closed in what he was sure was the last time, he thought he heard someone screaming in pain and anger. With a little smile he imagined Tom Riddle falling to his knees as his innocent little book was destroyed by one sneaky Harry James Potter.


	2. Chapter 2 : Resurrection

_$Talking$_ = Parseltongue

* * *

Harry was honestly surprised when he realised that he was hearing something. His body burnt like Hell and his right arm was still painfully numb from the sword's curse, but he was hearing... just fine. Very well, actually, since he couldn't remember being able to hear his own heartbeat or that soft echo-like sound that seemed to surround him – but maybe it was because he wasn't running for his life that he could pay attention to what he heard. His breathing was slow and painful and he could feel the water moving around him as his chest rose. He curiously opened his eyes and inwardly winced when he realised that he must have dropt his glasses somewhere despite the Sticking Charm the Quidditch Team insisted to put on : his vision was all blurry and he couldn't see well, only capable of making out colors and, with some guesses, his surroundings.

He had fallen against the left side of the pipe, a few feet away from the bars. A big red and gold thing was moving behind said bars and Harry frown. What the Hell was that? Harry tried to move but could only bit his lips in pain and surprise – his body hurt. Hurt very, very much. He shouldn't move, not when he might possibly _not die_ and he wondered if moving would make sure he _did_ die. It sure felt like it.

He didn't wanted to die. So he didn't move.

A soft melody echoed through the pipes and Harry's eyes widened as warmth filled his chest, delicately soothing his pain and caressing his skin with a comforting energy. He knew that voice, and there was only one creature in Hogwarts who had the ability to comfort others simply by singing.

"Fawkes?" Harry croaked. He kept himself from coughing as he knew it would only result into more pain than the mere discomfort he had in his itchy throat.

The red thing moved and Harry heard another melodious sound. A small smile stretched his lips before his brain kicked in : there was a blue shield that kept the phoenix from moving past the bars (Fawkes was much smaller than Harry and could have easily slipped in through the holes) and Harry's eyebrows raised in surprise. There were wards that kept _phoenixes_ from flashing in? He so wanted to learn them! It was just so... _brilliant,_ it was an anti- _phoenix_ ward. _Anti-phoenix ward!_

"Fawkes, Ginny's in the Chamber." Harry whispered quickly. "I don't know what happened to Riddle, but he has my wand. Be careful, kay?"

The bird crooned then disappeared in a bright flash. Harry moaned as the light hurt his retinas and, despite the painful sparks travelling through his whole body, he decided that he needed to go back to where Ginny was – or used to be, Harry wasn't sure if Voldemort had moved her from where he had left her. Fawkes had probably already moved Ron and Lockart back in the Hospital Wing – maybe even Ginny by now – and Harry was quite sure _he_ needed some healing too. He also needed his wand back...

But if Voldemort had left, he had probably brought the wand along. Somehow Harry had troubles picturing the powerful Lord Voldemort – well, not-so-powerful when being a parasite behind Quirell's head, but he certainly had been before if he had been named a _Dark Lord_ – leaving without a wand. Ginny's probably didn't work well for him since, from what Ron had told him, she had her great-aunt's uncle's wand and, from what _he_ knew, second-hand wands never worked well but if it also chose you. Neville's wand was enough of a proof for that.

Harry decided to leave the diary, the fang and the cursed sword behind him and didn't even tried to look for them since he could easily come back to fetch them another day. He was damned too hurt to even _try_ to pick them up. Not that he wanted to pick up the sword again: he was no masochist and the curse had been painful enough – not as painful as the Basilisk venom, but what was?

He got rid of his school robes, only keeping his uniform's trousers (which were very dirty indeed) and Dudley's old tee-shirt (which didn't even have a speck of blood on it, though it was a bit wet, especially the hem) since they would weight on him and make his movements all the more difficult. He noticed how he had a new scar on his now bare arm, purple and swollen and surrounded by hideous yellow protruding veins, though it didn't looked like a snake's bite. No, it looked like someone had pinched his arm and pulled until flesh had been ripped out, and then had proceeded to put the flesh back and make it stick to his arm with acid. All in all, it meant that Harry wouldn't be wearing T-shirts anytime soon.

Harry crawled all the way back to tunnel that linked the Master bedroom to the weaponry, where he finally got back on his feet with the help of the snake's corpse, then started walking slowly with his bloody hands leaving a trail on the Basilisk's sharp scales. It felt like an eternity before he was again standing in the weaponry, trying to steady his breathing as his whole body protested against the slightest moves. He couldn't lean on the Basilisk's body any further, since its tail curled up in the weapon room, almost blocking the entrance. At least it gave Harry enough place to walk around the tail instead of climbing on top of it and sliding down the other side – the Basilisk's was wider than Harry was tall, which wasn't very surprising considering the one thousand years of the snake and the twelve-almost-thirteen years of the Gryffindor. Not mentioning the time Harry had spent curled up in a cupboard, starved and bruised and miserable.

Harry exited the weaponry on his hands and knees, trying not to think about how he would have to walk later and trying to postpone the actual act. He had just hissed a low _close_ after he left the hidden room before hearing Fawkes' song echoing in the Chamber; it guided him toward the place where the phoenix and Ron's crying sister were, as well as making the pain recede a bit. He put a smile on his face and forced himself back on his feet – it wouldn't do to have witnesses of his weakened self since Dumbledore probably hoped for some 'power' to save him, not unlike last year. And while the 'power' last year caused him to faint... well, had Fawkes not found him unconscious? Pleading ignorance after a certain point was certainly something he would do, instead of making up some story and risk being caught lying.

About his story... What would he say to Dumbledore? He needed to stay as close to the real events as he could (not to start things he couldn't prepare for), but he certainly would not tell anyone about his earlier explorations of the Chamber. Nor would he say anything about his 'talk' with a teenage Voldemort – the meeting, yes, but not the _talk._

Speaking of things he wouldn't tell... What did Ginny remembered? It could cause him a lot of harm if his story didn't match hers. Small details were not very important, after all nobody would blame him for forgetting where exactly he had entered the pipes, but if Ginny heard them talking... Dumbledore wouldn't be happy to hear what he had said about Gryffindors. Actually, Harry's approach had been everything but how he usually acted, if still reckless (but that was Ron's fault, not his). It would be better not to go into details for that part. Did that meant he would need to erase some of Ginny's memories if she remembered anything?

... he didn't even had a wand to cast the spell. Shite.

"Ginny?" He croaked as he stopped a few feet away from her, then cursed himself as his voice didn't came out quite as confident as he had hoped. He was a little bit breathless from his walking on two feet, sure, but now he sounded as if he was about to cry! What would happen should the fan girl decided that Harry 'loved' her too and that he was her prince or something? He had heard enough fairy tale fantasies from the girls at his muggle school that he feared that Ron's sister would develop similar creepy expectations from his rescue in the Chamber. The steps were horrifyingly similar: the wicked witch (Voldemort) kidnapped the princess (Ginevra) and the prince (Harry) killed the witch's monster (the Basilisk) and save the princess (again, Ginevra). The next steps were for the princess (Ginevra) to marry and have children.

With the prince (Harry).

Harry shivered in horror when Ginny's eyes locked onto him. The adoration he could see in her face... Was it wrong of him if it made him feel dirty? Violated? He could almost feel her obsession about him growing and Fawkes' worried thrill didn't help him in the slightest. He smiled anyway and limped closer to them. His smile became genuine when he saw his wand – pale brown on the dark green floor – lying next to Fawkes' claws and he gently dropt to his knees next to the Gryffindor girl, his hand swiftly picking up the wand though he kept his gaze on the quickly paling girl. His thumb lovingly caressed the holy wood, but the wand felt different – still warm in his hand, but different.

He would need to look this up – or maybe ask Ollivander?

"Ginny?" Harry said again in a worried tone when the girl hid her face in her palms and started to sob loudly. _Again._

"It was my fault, Harry!" She cried. "It was me! I did all that...Tom... I mean, _Riddle_ made me but... I didn't wanted to, but..."

"It's okay." Harry lied easily. Inside, he was fuming since he was finally realising that it had been _Ginevra Weasley_ who had vandalised their dorm. _She_ had been the threat they were looking for! Not only had she almost ruined Hogwarts by getting kidnapped, but she had _dared_ to rummage through his trunk? It was no wonder now that he couldn't find one of his few fitting shirts after that! It had not been ripped to shreds, s _he_ had taken it!

He was only lucky that he had always refused to wear Dudley's smelly old pants. Would she have stolen a boxer had he had any?

"It's n-n-not! I'm going to be exp-p-pelled!" Ginny sobbed.

 _If only_ , Harry mentally sighed. Aloud, he said: "Of course not, Ginny. You were possessed, it wasn't your fault."

Ginny's teary big brown eyes (so brown eyes, huh) looked up at him between her red fringe and wet fingers and he easily spot the plea she was trying to make: _help me, save me, love me!_

"Really?" She asked in a perfect almost-hoping voice that made Harry internally cringe. Why did that girl wanted to appear _weak_ and _pitiful_? What _good_ was there in being weak?

"Really." Harry reassured her with a small nod, hiding the painful throb that ran up his spine when he moved. "Ginny, do you remember how you were taken here?"

Ginny shyly shook her head, her eyes full of shame when she couldn't be useful to her hero. "No. I was talking to a friend, then... nothing."

Harry smiled softly at her, relieved at the news, then looked at Fawkes who was making knowing sounds. He glared at the bird, but it only made the phoenix emit an amused thrill before he jumped in the air and flew circles around them.

Harry turned back toward Ginevra before he stood up stiffly, hiding his wince with a quick smile. "Ron's waiting for us near the entrance."

Ginny beamed at him then held her hand out so he could help her stand. He did and managed to hide the grimace of pain that wanted to appear on his face by tightening his fist behind his back – from the warmth he felt running in his palm, he suspected that his nails had managed to cut his skin and draw some blood. Like he didn't hurt enough...

Ginny clung to his hand and arm like a famished man to a piece of bread and put almost all of her weight on him. He suspected she was feigning some sort of injury or physical weakness and hoped that he would propose to carry her, but her pull on his arm was so painful he feared opening his mouth in case what came out was some sort of... _insult._ She tripped when they passed through the door and it took all of his control not to push her back into the Chamber and lock her in.

And when he hissed for the door to close behind them, the annoying little bint jumped and _stumped on his foot._

 _$Bloody shite!$_

The sharp hiss escaped his mouth in what Ginny decided was a completely normal hiss of pain. She babbled an apology, but Harry smiled softly at her and told her there was nothing to apologize for: she had been surprised and didn't know that his foot was there. She blushed profusely and _put even more weight on his shoulder_ , only to turn her head away in an act of shyness.

Harry wanted to cry. No, wait – he wanted to be bitten by a Basilisk again. And die. And stay dead. _And kill the annoying little twat who believed she was living a bloody fairy tale!_

Ginny, not being half-blind, saw Ron and Lockart long before Harry noticed they were anywhere near the place he had left them. Ginny squeaked in joy at seeing them – though Harry was sure she was happier seeing her dear DADA professor than her brother as she rushed toward the blond fraud first, pulling a pain-blinded Harry Potter with her. It was all he could do to hold back the tears threatening to escape on his cheeks and he needed four of Ginny's panicked 'Professor!' to irritate him enough to distract him from his agonizing body.

"He's awake, Ginny." Harry said in a low voice – his tone could be mistaken as caution, though Fawkes was making soothing sounds, so he knew the phoenix knew he was faking his health. But Harry felt like only sleep and time would rid of that pain (maybe he could beg a Pain Reliever Potion from Madam Promfrey?), just as always, and he rolled his eyes at the bird before focussing on Ginny.

"No, he's not!" The girl panicked. "His eyes are open but he's not awake! Do you think he's petrified like Colins? Do you think the monster's still around here?"

"Lockart attacked us." Harry said in a firm tone. "He stunned Ron and tried to erase my memories – but Ron's wand is broken and he was using it and the spell hit him instead."

Fawkes thrilled at him with humour at the lie, but didn't expose him. Harry supposed the bird knew that Lockart was a fraud and didn't found fault in Harry for taken advantage of this little fact to perfect his story.

"But why?" Ginny whispered as her eyes, once again, were filled with tears. "If he came to save me, why did he attacked you?"

Harry looked at Ron and casted a _Finite_ at him – he wasn't surprised when the half-assed spell didn't do a single thing. He had casted a few others before leaving Ron there, 'proving' he had tried to wake his friend, but only failed. He wasn't supposed to know the real incantation to remove a Stunner, after all. Lockart had failed to teach any of them something useful, and Quirrell had only been slightly better.

"He was a fraud." Harry explained. "He never did a single thing he wrote about in his books. He was going to erase both my and Ron's memories, saying we lost our minds seeing you dead, let you die and write another book about killing the Basilisk."

Harry almost smiled when he heard the horror and betrayal filled gasp Ginny made – with someone else (he'd tell Ron too, just in case) telling this part of the story nobody would have to lie. Although people could say _he_ lied to Ginny, he really didn't. He would bet his Nimbus 2000 that this had been Lockart's plan before understanding that Harry had no intentions of playing the clueless victim's part.

"I casted _Finite_ s on Ron, but he wouldn't wake up." Harry added. "So I went to get you alone."

Harry couldn't stomach seeing the stars of adoration in Ginevra's eyes as she came closer to him, probably intending to hug him before he stepped aside and looked away as if he had not seen her intention. He knew what was going on in her head and in made him sick.

She was probably going on and on about him being _her hero._

Harry turned toward Fawkes. "Can you bring us to the Hospital Wing?"

The bird let out a happy thrill that caused Ron's sister to turn her adoration toward the phoenix. Harry felt a little better at that.

"Can you carry Ginny out first?" Harry asked. "I'm sure everyone's worried about her."

Fawkes chirped and flew to Ginny's shoulder. He hold one of his talon out for Ginny to grab then quickly flew into the giant pipe, carrying the squealing red head away.

Harry quickly turned toward Ron and casted his strongest _Finite_ yet – theoretically, it would work _._

Indeed, the Gryffindor's eyes snapped open and he looked around himself, only to gape at Harry's dirty appearance. Harry tried to appear relieved at his friend's awakening, but he was feeling too tired to do anything but smile weakly.

"Hey Ron." Harry said, before quickly continuing when Ron's eyes flew around the dirty room. "Ginny's alright, Fawkes' taking her to the Hospital Wing."

Relief washed over Ron's face and he fell back against the wall Harry had leant his body against earlier that night. "What happened?"

Harry pointed the drooling form of Gilderoy Lockart and was slightly amused to see Ron's eyes widen before the red head boy burst out laughing.

"What happened?" Ron repeated between two laughs.

"Lockart stole your wand, stunned you then tried to Obliviate me. His Obliviate turned against him... and his stunner was very powerful. I couldn't remove it and I was worried Ginny might..."

"It's okay." Ron interrupted him. "I prefer missing an adventure and having Ginny alive than kicking butts and having Ginny dead because you spent hours trying to revive me."

Harry winced when Ron talking about the 'adventure'. He then wondered if the red and gold _did_ drain brain cells. He would need to figure out something to protect his and Hermione's intellects before anything happened to theirs – it would be a crime to allow Hermione's brain to be corrupted by too much exposure to gryffindorishness, and her bossy attitude was more the result of her lack of social experience and ego than anything else, so it was bearable.

"I thought I could try it again before Fawkes came back." Harry said. "You know, so _you_ could be the one to hold Lockart when Fawkes comes back."

Horror and disgust turn Ron's freckled face slightly green. "You're evil!"

There was a small tug at the corner of his lips, but Harry didn't smile. What he did to Lockart could indeed be considered evil by most people, but Harry wasn't about to let luck decide if he was getting hurt or not (even if he was pretty sure his luck _had_ saved him once again). Lockart was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time, but the icing on the cake was that he was someone Harry had no problems disposing of: he was annoying, he took advantage of others, he was a liar and, more than once, Harry had noticed Lockart's less-than-professional peeks into the cleavage of the students' girl population.

Harry was a liar and remorselessly took advantage of others - he was an opportunist, after all. Still, he never lied to himself about what he did or what he was. And while he was always finding reasons to justify himself with, he knew that the only reason he had done what he had done to Lockart was because he had wanted to.

Salazar Slytherin would have been proud of him.

Fawkes came back after another five minutes and Ron suddenly looked even more constipated at the idea of touching Lockart. Still, he grabbed the man's hand with a disgusted frown and took Fawkes' talon with his other hand, allowing the beautiful phoenix to pull him out of the Chamber. Harry waited ten more minutes before the phoenix came for him, only to plea the bird with his eyes when they arrived in Myrtle's bathroom.

"Can I go to the loo?" Harry asked with feigned innocence.

Fawkes' amused caw told him that the bird saw through his act – not that Harry thought he could deceive such a creature – but allowed him to do as he wanted. Harry smiled sadly in thanks as he escaped to the nearest cabin, put the Ravenclaw's necklace around his neck and turn the small hourglass once.

He used his spare hour to put the necklace back where he had found it – under the safety of his Invisibility Cloak though, as he didn't quite liked the idea of anyone seeing him when he was supposed to be down the Chamber. The pain running through his body made it difficult to be back in the bathroom in time – since he had practically ran across the castle to fetch his Cloak, give the simple-minded Ravenclaw her necklace back and finally return his Cloak to his dorm – but he managed to slip in the cabin next to the one he had used for going back in time just before Fawkes exited the Chamber's entrance with Ginny.

It felt strange to hear himself talking, _knowing_ that it was him, but not the now-him – unlike a picture or those family-movies the Dursleys adored where the action was in the _past_ , Harry knew he existed right now.

Twice. Probably three times at one point in the last hour, but as long as he didn't get to hear himself talking to himself without talking himself (did you get that? Because he didn't) he was willing _not_ to think about existing at multiple places _at the same time._

He waited a minute after he heard the cabin's door close before he opened his own, carefully walking outside to meet Fawkes. The bird gave him a mocking shrill before flying out of the room. Harry sighed then followed the bird and only paused to hiss at the Chamber's entrance to close.

It was time to meet with the Headmaster and see if he was that good of a Slytherin after all. The Sorting Hat might say so every time it saw him, but this would be a test of his real abilities.


	3. Chapter 3 : Story Time

_Hey,_

 _Chapter Three here._

 _Have fun!_

 _Disclaimer : I do not own Harry Potter._

* * *

Molly Weasley very nearly killed him the moment he entered the Hospital Wing.

Her hugs had always made him uncomfortable (they were too tight, too warm, too much, he felt _trapped_ ), but this particular hug was of a completely other level. He couldn't breath and his already very painful body was screaming in agony until she released him to go back to her daughter lying on a bed with Mr Weasley sitting on a chair next to her bed. Ron was sitting on another chair, an empty potion vial on the table beside Ginevra's bed and a proud look on his face as he talked to his father – he had turned quiet when Harry had entered the room, though.

Nobody but the previously fired Headmaster noticed the twitches of pain on his face, but even him refused him a moment of peace: they wanted the whole story. _Now._ He had to ask Madam Pomfrey for something cold to drink before anyone noticed the dirt on his face and the new scar on his arm. Which was a feat of his own, because the two elder Weasleys were parents of seven children, were of parents of _Fred and George_ , and Dumbledore was a teacher. Weren't they supposed to see these things?

But all Dumbledore did was ask him to sit and look at him, waiting for Harry to shift uncomfortably or stammer something out and put Dumbledore in control of the conversation. But Harry knew that lesson, he had learned it from Vernon years ago when Dudley had broken the living room's tellie and blamed it on Harry. Every attempt Harry had made to refuse the blame had dug him deeper, so he knew to keep his mouth shut.

It still didn't endeared the Headmaster to him, though. Actually, Harry had figured that he would hate that man by the time he was thirteen.

(That was about two months from now.)

Dumbledore sighed, sounding somehow exasperated as if Harry was being difficult, before he spoke. "Now, my boy, please explain what happened."

Harry's hand twitched in his lap when the man called him 'my boy', just like it did every time the man did it. He hated being called 'boy' – it reminded him of his Aunt and Uncle during his youngest years when he didn't quite recalled his name yet – and the 'my' preceding it only made Harry want to snarl. He was no-one's anything. He could be a friend, he could be a student and he could be a... a male child, but he wasn't anyone's anything. The endearment was thoroughly repulsive.

"Ron and I heard that Ginny was taken in the Chamber." Harry said slowly after he took another sip of water. "I thought I knew where it was and we – Ron and I, I mean – decided to say it to Lockart. Ron said he was an idiot but I didn't want to go down there without a professor and McGonagall was busy, from what I saw..."

"Very responsible of you, Harry." Dumbledore said with a proud and grandfatherly tone. It made Harry want to retch.

"I asked Myrtle how she died. I was sure, after that, where the Chamber was. I opened it and Ron pushed Lockart down the pipe – he didn't want to go down and we didn't know if Ginny would be alive much longer."

Mrs. Weasley's whimper as she hugged her daughter tighter against her chest made Harry shiver. Would Lily Potter have reacted the same way when he had fought Quirell last year? He wanted to believe that she would have, but at the same time it was mere wishful thinking. No mother wouldn't be angry at their children when they went and stupidly risked their lives – at least, that was what Petunia had taught him the one time Dudley almost got ran over by a car. Harry had never seen the woman forget the noisy neighbours before making a spectacle of herself by shouting the driver deaf. She had been ashamed of herself after that, but Harry had discovered what exactly a mother was that day. What Lily Potter could've been to him.

But it was pointless to question himself about Lily Potter. The woman was dead and, though she had given her life for him, he couldn't get himself to love her, to care for her. For years he had thought that she had been a drunk prostitute, sleeping with his pusher of a father so she could have her doses: he had mourned her already, had distanced himself from her so much in the years before Hogwarts that he couldn't think of a good reason to mourn her again now that he knew the truth. It was simply the idea of a mother, someone to take care of him, that was so tempting to him.

He wanted someone to take care of him. To love him unconditionally. No wonder his deepest desire was himself surrounded by his ancestors!

"Down there, Lockart started to act... hum..." Harry shifted on his chair, as if he was looking for a polite word to say what he wanted to say, when he was actually waiting for someone to tell him they already heard the story or something alike. He didn't need long: Ron was more than eager to get his part of the attention.

"The git stole my wand and Stunned me, Mum!" Ron said loudly and waved his hand toward the one bed where a drooling Lockart was staring at the space in front of him. It seemed that it didn't mattered that Ron didn't remember what he was speaking about, Harry mused, as long as he could say that he had had some part in their 'quest'. And it did made him sound more heroic, claiming that he had fallen to the traitorous professor's wand instead of saying that he didn't remember. Harry had made a good decision, telling Ron. "Then he tried to Obliviate Harry! But my wand's broken and he Obliviated himself!"

Harry grinned sheepishly. Time to add oil to the fire – and it wasn't even a lie. "We took his wand away when we found him packing his things in his office. He was running away so he wouldn't have to go and look for Ginny."

"THAT MAN!" Molly Weasley suddenly thundered, causing Harry's head to _pound_ as he sat very _still_. "And I BOUGHT his BOOKS! He's LUCKY he doesn't remember A THING or I would have WRUNG HIS NECK! How could he LEAVE knowing that MY BABY GIRL might be DYING..."

"Now, now, Molly." Dumbledore hushed her, and the woman buried her face in her trembling hands. "Let's hear the rest of the story, if you would?"

Mrs. Weasley nodded stiffly as her husband started to look ill. Harry worried about the muggle-lover: he looked the same as Ron when they had met Aragog.

"I tried to _Finite_ the Stunner on Ron but I couldn't." Harry explained. "I didn't want to waste time and I couldn't go back up so I decided to go alone."

"The next time one of your friend is victim to a stunner, try _Enervate._ " Dumbledore said with what Harry felt was a condescending voice – he even sounded mildly amused! "While a powerful _Finite Incantatem_ can end quite many curses and hexes, the proper counter is always the most effective."

Harry ducked his head 'sheepishly', effectively hiding his grimace. As if he didn't already knew that! "Yes, sir. Err, I walked until I reached the Chamber – there I met Riddle. I thought he didn't existed before, he said he was only a memory, so I talked to him. I tried to talk him into helping me looking for Ginny, but..."

Harry frown again – and this time he had everyone in the room suspended at his lips. He knew very well what his words could do to the already fragile mind of Ginevra Weasley and, as annoying as she was, he didn't want to traumatize her further. Not mentioning that he would appear even more of a hero should he tell them all that he battled Voldemort and survived _again_. _For the third time._

"He was the one. He was the Heir of Slytherin. He opened the Chamber the first time and he was the one who possessed Ginny and forced her to open it again. Ginny was lying there, between two statues, and he took my wand when I was trying to wake her."

Mrs. Weasley started to cry with her arms tight around her daughter. Mr Weasley paled even more and shakily put an arm around his son's shoulders, an almost desperate look on his face. Ron looked ill too as he finally realised what kind of 'adventure' Harry had just gone through.

"Harry, please continue." Dumbledore said softly.

Harry held back the desire to snap at the old Headmaster. How dared he! Harry was tired and hurt and everything and Dumbledore didn't even cared! Malfoy was right, Dumbledore shouldn't be allowed near children. He was a leader alright – a politician, Harry was sure, a man willing to kill a few to save the many. He didn't care that Harry needed rest: he wanted to know what happened so he could adjust his plans.

Harry made his decision.

"He called the Basilisk on me." Harry said after a pause. "I... I ran away – I... I couldn't _fight_ it. It was huge! So I ran and got lost. I didn't know where I was, but the Basilisk did and it followed me until I reached a dead end." There Harry grabbed his scarred bicep and put a pained and fearful expression on his face (not that it was very hard, at least for the pain part). "The Basilisk opened his mouth and... I think it wanted to eat me, you know. I could've fit in its mouth. I did, actually – that's what saved me."

It seemed that his tale was too much for Mrs. Weasley as the woman rose from her seat and pulled her family out – only Ron fought to stay and his mother was simply too shocked to force him to follow her out. So Ronald Weasley stayed and listened avidly, drinking up his comrade's tale as if his words were pure gold.

"The pipe I was in had rusty bars behind me. I backed up until I was flushed against the bars and... and when it tried to eat me, I slipped and fell down. I thought it was over."

Harry took a shaky breath – it was more difficult to tell his tale that he had thought. He could see everything that happened : the Basilisk's red mouth as it tried to swallow him whole, the rusty bars behind him, the blood as the creature jerked away...

"The Basilisk bite the bars. It was very painful and it was stuck there – the pipe was too small for it to get away and it jerked around... And I was there, trying not to move not to get hurt. When it finally got away its fang got caught in my harm." He squeeze his fingers around his new scar and took a deep breath. "I managed to remove my robe and I ran away, but then there was this _sound..._ Like terrible pain... And I remembered that I had stolen Riddle's diary and that it was in my pocket and, maybe, I thought it was what screamed because Riddle was a memory in a diary, right? So he couldn't live if the diary was gone, right?"

Harry took a quick and deep breath – now he was _really_ panicking and that wasn't good. He was shaking madly, but Dumbledore made no sign of calling Madam Pomfrey to help him – the woman had left after giving Harry his glass of water, back to the petrified victims being 'resurrected' down in the dungeons. The infuriating Headmaster was waiting for his story and Harry inwardly cackled at the thought of what Dumbledore would get from him.

 _Nothing._

"I think I fainted after that." Harry whispered once he calmed himself. "When I woke up Fawkes was next to me. My arm was healed. I told Fawkes that Ginny was in the Chamber and we met there. We walked back to the entrance, then Ginny left with Fawkes and I tried to wake Ron again – it worked. Then Ron and Lockart left. Then Fawkes took me here."

Harry looked up at Dumbledore and saw what was probably him smiling. Smiling! The condescending aura around him was there full-force, almost suffocating Harry with its sweet and burning weight...

Was that Dumbledore's _magic_ that he felt on his skin, offering him a feeling of praise and surrounding him with approval? As if Harry was a puppy that had done a nice trick.

It made Harry want to throw something at him. Something _sharp_.

"I think both you and Mister Weasley will receive Special Awards for Services to the School... along with one hundred points each." Ron yelped with joy and Harry must've look surprised because the old man chuckled softly before continuing. "Maybe Mister Weasley should carry the good news of his sister's rescue to the rest of his family?"

Noticing the dismissal, Ron nodded eagerly and ran out of the Hospital Wing. Harry was left with a manipulating old man – not that Harry couldn't be manipulating when he wanted to, but that wasn't the point – with no healer around. It wasn't just annoying and creepy, it was worrisome!

"Harry." Harry looked up but refused to look at the man in the eyes. Instead he look above the man's shoulder – not that the man would notice it since Harry couldn't see well anyway and could justify himself with that. "Is there... anything you'd like to tell me?"

Harry lowered his head in false shame, but he was actually trying not to take his wand and curse the Headmaster bald or something (he knew the exact spell he'd use, he had found it in a napping fourth year's notes). So, was there anything he had to add to his story to make it believable? Oh, yeah, that...

"Hum, sir..." Harry gulped loudly. "Riddle... Riddle said something about, hum... He said he was Voldemort, sir."

Harry peeked cautiously at Dumbledore and saw something that probably was the man beaming at him. He carefully kept himself from flinching away, forcibly keeping his face into the guilt-flavoured mask fitting his situation.

"Ah, yes." Dumbledore said in a sad voice. "Tom Riddle was probably the most intelligent student of his time here at Hogwarts. I cannot understand why he made the choices he made, nor do I know what exactly he had done to himself. He spent some time away from England after his schooling and I never could properly trace down his path. The few who still remember him speak of some curse put on him during his travels, while others suggest some sort of family insanity."

"What do _you_ believe, sir?" Harry asked. Surely Dumbledore would want Harry to believe what _Dumbledore_ wanted him to believe?

Dumbledore sighed. "Like I said, I don't know much, Harry." _Liar,_ was what immediately come up in his mind _._ "But what I know of him makes me think he simply had little experience and understanding of love or true friendship. He never loved anyone and I do not think anyone made the effort to try and love him. Had he known love... perhaps he would not have taken the path he took. Sadly, I don't believe there is anything redeemable in him anymore, as there is very little of Tom Riddle left in Voldemort. Tom Riddle was a charming young man with great intellectual capacities, but he was driven by his ambition until he went too far. Voldemort is a murderous creature driven only by power lust, and I'm afraid that the sole part of Tom Riddle, the genius child, that still exists right now is that monstrosity that was always in him and which I will simply call _evil_."

Harry nodded sagely, as if he accepted this as a perfectly fitting explanation and Dumbledore had not just sounded even more ridiculous and creepy than he usually did. He didn't know where Dumbledore had grown up, or if he was born wearing black-and-white tinted glasses, but to say out loud that he had deemed Tom Riddle as a monster since the very beginning and not realise how crazy that sounded...

From the memory Tom Riddle's diary had shared with him, it had been very clear to Harry that the teenager had not wanted to go back to his summer residence, and that was why he had jumped on the opportunity to make Hagrid take the blame. And he couldn't even blame him, fifty years ago was right into World War II – Harry had just destroyed a man's very _mind_ and killed a _Basilisk_ not to go back to the Dursley's. He didn't know what he would've done to escape the war.

A few more minutes passed in silence before Harry understood he was meant to leave. He mumbled a few words of thanks to the old Headmaster before he left the Hospital Wing, half-limping and shaking from head to toe. It took him about half an hour to get back to the seventh floor to the Tower's entrance: climbing the stairs took a lot of him and he had had to take one step at a time, trying not to breath too loudly nor to show too much of his pain. All the students were in their common rooms since the lock down and Harry, though glad nobody could see him in a state of weakness, could have used Ron's help to get back to the Tower. He did whispered a few thanks to the castle after he climbed the last staircase, since no staircase moved during his ascension, which was like a gift wrapped in unicorn blessings or something.

He had recently been bitten by a Basilisk. Maybe phoenix tears were very powerful, but what kind of person let a visibly _suffering_ _person_ walk back to his dorm – which was on the _seventh floor_ when the Hospital Wing was on the _third floor_ – alone when he obviously needed _help_?

He might have to start to hate Dumbledore before he left for the Summer Holidays. His birthday seemed too far away to his tired, pain-filled mind.

When he finally went through the Fat Lady's portrait, Harry was almost immediately surrounded by cheering Gryffindors who had nothing _better_ to do than to _slap him in the back with proud smiles!_ But nobody heard his gasps under the cheers and his wide eyes were ignored. It was finally Wood who came to his rescue, pushing their housemates away after shouting a few obscenities about everyone's deductions abilities and the worrying state of their eyes. It was obvious to the Quidditch captain that his Seeker was _in pain_ (he was familiar with the sight, Harry figured, after two years of training together) and, in the end, Harry had to be escorted back to his dorm with the whole Quidditch team – minus the Twins who were with Ginny – protecting him from their stupid housemates.

Sometimes Harry worried about them. He wondered if, after all, the Slytherins were right about the Gryffs: had they sold all their wits for clueless bravery or something? Or maybe Harry really needed to do something about the red and gold, so it wouldn't traumatize anymore brains? Because, right now, Harry was very eager to _share_ his _glorious_ pain with _them._ And he swore, after an idiotic First Year managed to slap his elbow in 'congratulation', that he would _should_ _another imbecile_ _dared to touch him!_

Harry thanked the team before rushing in the showers, shedding his dirty clothes on the floor without a care in the world – he knew that the house elves would take care of them. Anyway, should they not be able to save them, he wouldn't be too sad about burning them in the common room's fireplace. The hot water stung when it hit his skin, making him pause then realise that he was indeed _freezing_ – but he dismissed this as the result of staying unmoving for an unknown amount of time in a flood pipe and didn't think about it much further.

The water around his feet was brown with slime and blood and it took a long time before his hair was clean of disgusting substances, meaning his dorm mates (bar Ron, who was probably still with his parents) were already asleep by the time he left the bathroom. Luckily for him, as he had forgotten to bring any change of clothes or even a towel with him when heading for the shower.

So he walked into his dorm, dripping wet and leaving a watery trail behind him, took his towel from his trunk along with his pyjamas bottom and walked back into the shared bathroom. Five minutes later he was in his bed, his covers cocooned tightly around him as he finally closed his eyes for a well-deserved sleep.

He was asleep the second his head touched the pillow.


	4. Chapter 4 : Dursley

_Hello. Here, have a new chapter._

 _Merry Christmas and happy New Year!_

 _Disclaimer : I do not own Harry Potter_

* * *

The rest of the school year passed without much mayhem: the victims of the Basilisk woke up and, in some kind of 'reparation', the Headmaster cancelled the exams – but for the O.W.L.s and N.E.W.T.s, of course, since the students _needed_ those exams to either enter their sixth year or to get a job. Harry could see those Fifth and Seventh Year students glaring at them as the rest of the students laughed _loudly_ and without a care in the world – with particularly no consideration for those who needed _calm_ and _silence_ to study for _their_ exams. More than fifty people had been hexed silent on the first day after the announcement.

Harry understood. He shared the feeling. Since his fight in the Chamber, his hearing had become extremely sensitive, even to the slightest whisper, causing great amounts of noise to give him atrocious headaches. He only told Hermione about those headaches, since he had supposedly been healed by phoenix tears, but the girl was simply too observant not to be told. Because, really, there was nothing discreet about him when it felt like a couple Bludgers were having a 'hit-the-walls-as-much-as-you-can' competition in his head. He even nearly fainted once when the Gryffindors partied in the common room and he had been forced to be there as 'the Hero of the Year' or something.

Hermione had suggested that his bad sight (his glasses had indeed been lost, never to be recovered since he was being watched all the time, and thus couldn't go back to the Chamber) increased the strength of the headaches. Still, there was nothing he could do until they left Hogwarts and he went to that small shop in Diagon Alley Madam Pomfrey had told him about so he could buy new glasses. Until then, he had to squint and read with his nose glued to his textbook with Hermione as his guide when they needed to go somewhere. He wondered if phoenix tears would have cured his eyesight, but kept silent in fear of causing questions he didn't want to answer.

Harry Potter he might be, but he was sure no amount of 'mysterious power' or 'motherly love' (Dumbledore's favourite) could have saved him from Basilisk venom. And should he survive a lethal bite from the creature, on top of the Killing Curse, then people would start to speculate about _immortality._ And if Harry happened to be, somehow, immortal, he had no desire for the wizards' equivalent of mad-scientists to open him up to study his inwards.

His own speculations, for the time being, were enough. He was more than happy to think that Slytherin's sword had somehow negated the venom's effects, so he could put everything about the Basilisk behind him.

It was a relief when the moment to leave Hogwarts arrived, if a bitter one – to leave her noisy corridors, the staring students and the spying portraits was nice, but to leave for the _Dursley_ 's... Hogwarts was clearly the lesser of the two evils.

As for Hermione, she had been a little bit put out with the cancellation of the exams, but Harry had managed to cheer her up by saying she suddenly had more time to learn new things instead of revising. He was sadly brought along to the library after he told her that, and the only reason Ron wasn't with them was because he had been taken out of school by his parents along with the rest of his siblings. Harry envied Ron a bit for escaping from Hermione's obsessed learning sessions – not that he didn't like to learn, but, unlike Hermione, he wasn't book smart. No matter how hard he tried he couldn't understand the textbooks' words: he needed to twist the words around and practice the theory until everything finally made sense.

The trip back to London was quiet for the simple fact that Harry and Hermione had nothing to say to each others. Hermione spent the trip reading one of the books she had bought before school but had not been able to read because of her petrification, and Harry was reading his History textbook – the only book he had not bothered reading that year, quite sure that he could get Hermione's notes before the final exams. It was also the only textbook that could pass as fiction and not cause him more headaches.

"Your relatives are not here, Harry?" Hermione asked when she couldn't spot Vernon's large form anywhere on the muggle side of the platform.

Harry smiled sheepishly. "I sent them a letter saying I'd get to their house on my own. I need to get my glasses first and they don't like magic, so I didn't want to... well, I just said someone was dropping me nearby."

Understanding washed over Hermione's face and she frowned. Harry froze when she hugged him softly and, not quite sure how to respond, he stayed stiff with his arms on his sides. Unlike Mrs. Weasley's hugs, Hermione's were only uncomfortable in how he almost swallowed some of her hair. She was hugging him like he was made of glass – easily broken, and so fragile.

"If that's the case... Try to have fun, okay?" Hermione whispered in his hear. "If you need anything, just ask me."

Hermione let go and Harry looked at his hand when he could see a piece of parchment covered with Hermione's handwriting – it was an address and a phone number. He looked back up at Hermione's worried face and frowned a little.

"Weren't your parents taking you to France this summer?" Harry asked, because that was what Hermione had told him earlier that week.

Hermione blushed. "Yes, of course, but my aunt will come and feed my father's cat everyday and, maybe, if you need help, I mean _she_ could help, and Hedwig can still reach me, but..."

"Thank you." Harry interrupted his friend, knowing he'd never call but touched all the same. "I'll keep it in mind."

Hermione's smile was sad – as if she knew he would not call. And of course she knew, wasn't she the one to find out about the Basilisk? Harry knew that she had to offer her help anyway, because there might be a chance that he would call. She hugged him again, then ran toward her parents, offering him a last wave before disappearing in the crowd.

Harry sighed before heading his own way toward another 'secret' entrance used mainly by Purebloods, one that led to an Apparition point with a couple of Floos. He flooed directly to the Leaky Cauldron, where he was spat out in the middle of the pub – attracting his fair share of attention.

"You okay, lad?" Tom's voice asked from behind his bar.

Harry pulled himself on his feet and smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, sorry for that. Floos hate me."

He heard a couple of snickers around the room and some muttered 'mudblood', but acted as if he didn't – he was quite sure that his hearing wasn't normal at this point and he was trying not to make it too obvious (it was an advantage if he ever saw one). Not mentioning the fact that he knew better than to snap back at people for mocking him – he had had his fair share of humiliations in the past years to get used to it.

So he pulled his trunk behind him and left for Diagon Alley with his nearly useless eyes fixated on the ground, using the _Point me_ not-quite-spell to find the EyeGear shop. He apologized to at least thirteen people for running into them before he finally arrived to the shop, about to scream in frustration – he was bloody _blind_ without his glasses. The last time Dudley's gang had broken his glasses beyond the help of tape, Harry had fixed them with accidental magic – he hadn't known that then, only being eight – and had had no need to walk around blind.

He also suspected that his eyesight had worsened since that day and couldn't help but appreciate the chance to get a new prescription. Well, a _first_ prescription since Petunia had hardly sent him to see an optometrist when the school had complained about his bad eyesight, simply pulling her father's old glasses from the storage and telling him to get used to them. He had had horrible headaches during the first few months, but eventually he had became used to it. Now that he thought about it, wasn't that a bad thing to do? Oh, well, it was just what he expected from the Dursleys, then.

A small bell rang when he pushed the door open and he saw something move in front of him – but it wasn't shaped like anything Harry could recognize and he simply looked around the blurry brown-coloured room in search of the shop's tender.

"Hello?" He said loudly, trying to force his eyes on the shapes around him. Was that a chair... or a stool? Maybe a box? Or a pile of books? Damn it...

"Ah, yes, yes. Coming!" A far-away voice shouted.

Harry stayed where he was, trying to ignore the still moving thing next to him and waiting patiently until a short figure entered the room. It emitted a high-pitched squeak and ran toward him, causing Harry to step back and flinch when he felt his hand being taken and shaken against his will.

"Ah, Harry Potter! What a pleasure, an honour! What can I do for you?"

Harry smiled sheepishly as he took his hand back – forcedly – and looked at the place he supposed the other's eyes were. He could catch the reflection from the lenses, so he guessed he was looking at the right place.

"I... I lost my glasses a few weeks ago. I was wondering if...?"

"Oh, yes, yes!" The figure exclaimed. "Of course! Well, follow me mister Potter!"

Harry nearly ran after the clerk, his short legs almost unable to keep up with the other's enthusiastic _jumps_ , his trunk bumping into the walls every now and then _._ The other didn't stop talking and Harry half-wondered if the clerk needed air to speak... His inner musing were interrupted when he heard the other speak his name.

"...had muggle glasses, I suppose? It's your first time here, that I know! Funny things, muggle glasses! Is it true the glass can only do one thing?"

Harry's smile froze on his lips, but he answered all the same.

"It corrects the sight. Are you saying..."

"Oh, my!" The person – Harry couldn't say whether it was a woman or a man with a particularly high-pitched voice – exclaimed. "How _dreadful._ Simply _dreadful,_ I have to say. No speed-reading or lies-detecting glasses?"

Harry's interest immediately perked up. _Lies_ -detecting glasses?

"I'm sorry, no."

The other murmured a 'how _dreadful_ ' again before stopping suddenly, causing Harry to trip on his feet and nearly fall on the ground. A hand on his shoulder made his muscles tense and he almost resist its pull – until he was sitting in a comfy chair and finally allowed the other manipulate him. Cold and heavy metal glasses were put on his nose. He widened his eyes when his vision shifted in front of him, hesitating a few times before everything became clear.

He was suddenly seeing an old man's face beaming at him. His mouth was missing quite a few teeth (those that weren't missing were either yellow or black, with a broken left canine), his nose was crooked and he had round golden-framed glasses on his nose. It wasn't a pretty picture, but Harry, used to his relatives' faces, didn't flinch at the sight.

"Ah, _wonderful_." The old man said in a definitively girly voice. "Now, what kind of frame would you have? Black and round, like your last?"

Harry hid a wince.

"Maybe something new?" He wondered.

"But of course!" The other chirped. "My best sale is that pink bat-shaped frame – very popular among young girls, but maybe not for a young man..."

In the end, Harry got a black rectangular frame and had the clerk add four small additions to his glasses instead the whole set like he would have liked – but it was simply too expensive. A nice Weather Enchantment would protect his eyes from the sun and repel water (and, unlike the one the Quidditch team put on his old glasses, it wouldn't fade after a while), along with the useful speed-reading spell, the classical unbreakable spell and another that would allow him to see in the dark. The lies-detecting thing was very tempting, but it was said to be unreliable and was damn too expensive to even bother with it.

He also decided on Hermione's birthday gift right there and then: a pair of oval golden glasses with the additional speed-reading charm on them. He also got the booklet for her since, after all, she could always add some other spells later.

His next stop was at Ollivander's.

"Mister Potter." The wandmaker's voice seemed right next to his left ear, causing him to jump and turn toward the man with a startle expression. "I had not expected you back so soon."

Harry blushed. He also remembered the displeased words Ollivander had said to Hagrid when the man's snapped wand was mentioned.

"My wand feels weird." Harry finally admitted, pulling it out and putting it to the wandmaker's outstretched hand. "Like... It's not as warm and homey as before."

Ollivander blinked, inspected the wand, then gave it back to Harry with a compassionate face.

"I'm afraid this isn't your wand anymore. The wand's master has changed and, while it will work for you, its loyalty belongs to another. To the person who took it from you."

Harry's face paled. "You... what do you mean, it's not my wand anymore? Another master?"

Ollivander sighed. "Wands are fickle things. They all have different preferences and they bond with a wielder who has a certain compatibility with their core and wood. But if they feel like their previous master was disarmed in an official battle, their loyalty will shift. Wands are semi-sentient weapons and, like the majority of the magical semi-sentient weapons, they will seek the strongest wielders. If their previous master is defeated, they will bow to the defeater."

Harry closed his eyes, easily remembering the moment his wand left his fingers to fly right into Tom Riddle's ones. But he was dead, right? Harry had destroyed him. How come the wand's loyalty had not switched back to him? Or maybe this was a case of 'once lost, never recovered'?

"Do I need another wand?" Harry asked mournfully – his holly and phoenix feather wand had been dear to him, like a part of himself, and now that he had lost it he felt like a part of him had died. It was an horrible feeling.

"I'm afraid you do. However, you are not the same person than you were the first time you entered my shop. A wand who had dismissed you back then could very well choose you this time."

Harry remembered how many wands he had tried before and winced.

"How long will it take?"

A pain-filled look passed on Ollivander's face. "From what I gathered during your last visit, you are a very complicated being, Mister Potter. If we are lucky, you will only have to try a dozen of them before I can understand your needs."

Harry nodded. "And what do I do with this one?"

Ollivander's bright eyes seemed to glow. "You give it to its new master, of course."

Harry refrained from telling the wandmaker that said master was dead – or destroyed. He had no desire to have the magical version of policemen after him.

With his new wand (fir, 12 inches, Thestral hair) safely hidden in his new holster, Harry walked toward Gringotts, taking quite a great amount of Galleons back with him, before entering the second-hand items shop where the Weasleys had bought their school things. He raided the shelves, asking sweetly to the clerk working there to shrink his bag and trunk, before going to the Leaky Cauldron for a small supper.

After that, taking a deep breath to summon his courage, he lowered the hood of the cloak he had bought at the junk shop and left the Leaky Cauldron. He slipped into the nearest ill-lit street he saw before summoning the Knight Bus, jumping back in fright when the purple monstrosity appeared out of nowhere. He winced a little, then again when he saw a tired-looking woman looking at him with bored-out-of-her-mind eyes.

"Hi, the name's June, it's eleven Sickles for a ride, thirteen for a cup hot chocolate, fifteen and you get a hot bottle of water and a toothbrush." She said, not even bothering to hide her yawn by the end of her speech. "So, where do we leave you?"

Harry cleared his throat. He had decided that appearing on his relatives' doorstep in a magical bus was definitely a bad idea and thus would get out a bit further. Just in case the neighbours saw and told Petunia. "Wisteria Walk, Little Whinging please."

Recognition lit the woman's eyes and she watched him curiously as he gave her the needed eleven Sickles, going as far as to follow him when he sat down.

The infernal ride had been going on for two full minutes before the woman finally spoke.

"You a friend of old Figgy?"

Harry looked at her with stunned eyes. "Who?"

"Arabella Figg, Squib, living with an army of kneazle half-breeds. Ring a bell?"

It _did_ , actually, but Harry wasn't sure if he wanted to say so before he had more information. A Squib living closely to him for the past eleven years? Wasn't that a little bit too suspicious?

And he had always thought Mrs Figg's cats were too smart to be normal.

"I don't know." Harry answered. "It's my first time going there, meeting with a friend."

"Oh." The woman replied with a disappointed frown. "To do what?"

Harry shrugged. "Looking into something. About Harry Potter living near that place, I think."

Excitement. Harry almost smiled when he saw that – surely, after a couple of rumours brought a great number of witches and wizards around the place, Dumbledore wouldn't be able to claim it was _safe_ there. Harry was pretty sure the so-called 'blood wards' were only around the house and that, outside the Dursley home, he was as vulnerable as the next person. It had not occurred to him to remove the secrecy on his living conditions to get out of them, but now that he thought about it... it was simply brilliant. And if the eager silence of the two old witches behind him were anything to go by, the 'secret' would spread quite easily. Old ladies were known to gossip, after all.

" _Harry Potter?_ Oh, you really mean it?" Gone was June's boredom – instead she looked her age, something between sixteen and twenty, and eager for gossip.

"Found the first clue two years ago – a friend of a friend's is muggleborn, heard the boy's name at a muggle zoo along with D... Doley? Dulley? Then checked into that muggle yellow book and found them. He said we should be careful of around the place – not using magic there, we don't know what Dumbledore put around the area to protect him."

Heavy breathing, adoring eyes, the whole fanatical kit. Harry double-guessed his plan, but it wasn't like he could Obliviate them – there was no way he was getting another warning from the Ministry about underage magic and he wasn't _that_ good with the spell either.

The Bus jerked into a stop and Harry saw the familiar pattern of houses on Wisteria Walk – only a few spots away from Mrs Figg's house. He turned and nodded kindly at June and bid her a good night, but she was already gone and kept repeating soft 'Harry Potter's again and again.

Creepy, but he would be gone from his uncle's house soon enough and probably wouldn't have to deal with many stalkers. Hopefully.

As soon as he got off the Bus, Harry looked up and searched the sky. He barely noticed the Bus leaving, since he had spotted a white silhouette flying in the sky. He smiled happily and ran toward Privet Drive, eager to put as much space between him and the Squib's spying eyes and cats. He was also not really willing to let her associate the cloaked figure that just started rumours on Harry Potter's location and Harry Potter's owl – she was reporting to someone, he was sure, and Harry would undoubtedly get in trouble should it be discovered that _he_ had been the one to lift the secret on where he was living.

With a little luck, the great amount of witches and wizards that would be coming around the place in the near future would drive the Dursleys crazy and they would move away, allowing Harry to move elsewhere as well. At least, that was his plan.

Harry hid in the closest alley, a shortcut he always used when running away from Dudley, removed his cloak and tied it under Dudley's old shirt – there was no need to give the Dursleys any excuse to punish him for bringing even more 'freakishness' into their home. Hedwig finally flew closer toward him, landing on his shoulder and gently nipping at his ear.

"Hey, love." Harry whispered as his hand raised to pet her head. "No problem here? You didn't get too bored waiting for me?"

A happy chirp later, Harry started to walk toward his uncle's house again.

"I'm not letting you inside that house again, Hedwig. I refuse to let last summer happen again, can you forgive me?"

Hedwig ruffled her feather, showing him that it didn't bothered her. Actually, Harry thought she would be happier outside, without any Dursley threatening her life to put pressure on her human – because he was _her_ human, just like she was _his_ owl.

"I'll still be in need of your services, though. Hermione's in France, so if you're willing to travel that far she'll probably sent a letter back for me. Then Ron has Errol... So he'll probably use your services too."

Hedwig puffed out her chest, a proud hoot escaping her beak. Harry smiled again.

"And if you could watch out for Mrs Figg's kneazles for me in your free time? I don't like the idea of people spying on me. Can you believe it? The old hag knew what I was for years, she's a bloody Squib, but she never told me! She knew I hated it at the Dursley's and she did nothing! She never told anyone about how they treated me. I mean, surely someone in the wizarding world would have adopted me? Surely my parents had friends that could have taken me in?"

Hedwig's huff was annoyed this time. Harry took a deep breath and stopped his feet, watching the lit windows of Number Four.

"See you next morning, love?" Harry whispered, not really wishing she left him alone, but not willing to tempt Vernon's revenge should Harry ended up annoying the human walrus more than he should.

He didn't know if he could deal with loosing Hedwig. She was his first friend, no matter how pitiful that sounded, and loosing her would undoubtedly start a very murderous fire in his chest. Just the idea of her being hurt made him want to _kill_ something in the most horrible manner. He dearly wished nobody would be stupid enough to dare to hurt her.

"Stay safe." Harry murmured as Hedwig flew from his shoulder toward the sky. He took another deep breath, steeled himself and walked toward the door. It was locked so he knocked, wincing when Vernon's loud voice ordered Petunia to get the door.

Petunia's face turned sour as soon as she saw him, and he returned the expression with a deadpan face – it was all the greetings they needed. She sniffed hauntingly at him, before she turned and walked back inside, shouting :

"The boy's back, Vernon!"

Harry withhold a sigh. He knew that he wouldn't like what was about to follow, but he also knew that it wouldn't take long. Vernon had an important appointment with his cognac at eight o'clock, which was in barely ten minutes (he did arrived at this time on purpose, after all), and Vernon was never late when his cognac was involved.

"Bring him here!" Vernon's voice thundered again. "He and I need to talk!"

Cringing inside, Harry entered the house and closed the door behind him.

Time to face the music.


	5. Chapter 5 : Surprise

_Hello,_

 _I hope it's to your taste._

 _Disclaimer : I do not own Harry Potter._

* * *

Harry noticed two things when he entered the living room. One: Petunia had simply given Vernon a plate of home-made chocolate chips cookies before running out of the room, which was something he had never seen her do before and it put him on edge. And two: in the ten months that Harry had been away, Vernon had managed to widen his waist line even more, to the point that even the walrus he tried to portray looked fat. He wondered how Vernon could find clothes in his size, and how he could still fit in the driver seat of his car.

This lead him to mentally ask the Fates _when_ the stupid man would get that fatal heart attack Harry had been looking forward to. He had been hoping for it since the previous Mr Number Eight had died from being overweighed when Harry was six, but it seemed that all of Harry's not-so-subtle efforts toward that end didn't work. Should he put even _more_ butter in his recipes when they asked him to cook or something? Raise the already doubled amount of Trex shortening he put in the Dursley's cakes? Or should he simply take the matter in his own hands and make Vernon choke on his own vomit as some sort of 'accident'?

Harry pushed his thoughts of murder away and made sure not to meet Vernon's eyes (the last time he had done such a mistake was when he was four and Vernon had shouted at him for a whole hour for having to look into his 'freaky eyes', which, Harry would readily admit, had freaked many muggles out, teachers included, before he started wearing glasses. He also made sure to squint at Hogwarts when he wasn't wearing them, just in case), instead looking at the two new quivering chins that had appeared since last summer. The whole neck was covered with stretch marks, a clear sign that Vernon gained fat quicker than his body could produce new skin, and it made Harry think about his aunt.

She was clearly braver than he had thought, to be able to sleep next to that monster and not have nightmares. Or maybe she was into zoophilia or morbidity? Oh, shite... OhMerlin _God_ please! He didn't meant to think that! Eurgh, the _images..._

"Now listen, boy!" Vernon spat, causing Harry to flinch in surprise, then again in disgust when spit flew into his face. Honestly, they were five feet apart! Was Vernon doing this on _purpose_? "There will be no more trick like last summer, do you understand?"

"Yes, Uncle Vernon." Harry said in his most submissive voice. About anything else would have thrown the man into a fit of anger. Not that it _couldn't_ on a bad day, but there were less chances to.

"You are expected to continue your chores, I won't have you slacking off! You're already late today, it won't happen again!"

"Yes, sir." Harry whispered with resigned misery.

"You'll be cooking breakfast tomorrow – 7 o'clock, not a minute late. Do you understand?"

Harry nodded. Honestly, could he leave for his room already? His sensible ears were tired of the shouting, and his brain was starting to feel constricted inside his skull...

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND?!"

"Yes!" Harry replied a little bit harshly as his head pulsed painfully at the scream, before pausing as he noticed a vein pulsing on Vernon's purple forehead. Oh, shite, that wasn't good. "Sir." He added in a more subdued voice.

"Why, you little..." Vernon said in a very tight voice that made Harry step back in worry. He couldn't recall the last time Vernon's voice didn't thundered when he was angry, but maybe that was only because he was fatter now and had more trouble standing up?

Wait, why was Vernon standing up?

The answer came when a beefy fist gripped his collar one second before his head hit the wall behind him. His ears rang painfully, his head _throbbed_ and he gasped, his feet suddenly not touching the ground, and his hands rose to grab Vernon's wrist as to not suffocate.

What the Hell was wrong? What the Hell had happened to Vernon for him to react so quickly to one ickle mistake? Harry usually had two shouted warnings before the Dursley head started manhandling him and it wasn't to this point. When he was younger he would be thrown in his cupboard, slapped across the face a few times or pushed away so strongly he would fall on the ground. It wasn't what Harry would consider intolerable, just... well, just the obvious, really.

"LISTEN HERE!" Vernon shouted. "We took you in, we fed you and gave you clothes! There isn't anything else a freak like you can ask from us, _not a single thing, you hear?_ All we ask is that you PAY US BACK the money we wasted on you! Instead of giving my FAMILY what we deserved, I had to make CUTS for _an ungrateful FREAK_! And now you think you have the rights to give me an attitude? _Me_ , who let you eat our food and sleep under my roof? _Me_ , who had to tolerate your freakishness near my family? YOU HAVE NO RIGHTS AT ALL! Go to the room we generously gave you, _Freak_ , and I don't want to see you until I'm up for breakfast!"

Feeling his lungs screaming for air, all Harry could do was nod quickly and breath in avidly when Vernon finally let him go. He didn't care that he loosely fell on the ground, coughing and sucking in loud breaths – that is until Vernon's foot collided against his ribs, the cloak tied around his torso being a very thin and unhelpful protection against the blow, and efficiently kicked him out of the living room.

Very so unwilling to be kicked again, Harry jumped on his feet and ran for the door – he was _not_ staying there when Vernon had gone completely mad! He unlocked the door and dashed out, leaving the door open in his hurry.

No way Dumbledore was sending him back there ever again. Not even if Vernon was _Imperio_ 'ed to act like a bloody saint, not even to pack things if (when) his relatives got killed. He was better off living in the streets than with the bloody _Dursleys_.

Why the Hell was there a Squib living near him if it wasn't to protect him? To spy on him, sure, but also to protect him... right?

 _Right?_

"BOY!" Vernon's voice thundered in the empty Privet Drive – Harry was already in Willoe Street, the opposite way from Wisteria Walk. He wasn't getting anywhere near anyone he knew from his childhood; he was getting away from this place and _not_ coming back.

And if Dumbledore _insisted_ that he had to come back there...

Well, he would think of something. He always did.

* * *

It was his stomach growling in hunger that convinced him to get something to eat. He had walked all night, used to staying up late since forever, after pulling his Invisibility Cloak from his bag and having thrown it around himself. He was now very tired, sweaty and weak, and his throat's sensibility gave away the bruises that Vernon had left there. Not mentioning the pounding headache that had made itself home behind his temples, though it had become more of a background pain after the six hours mark.

But the point was that he didn't felt like showing himself anywhere, worried that a wizard might spot him or something, so he decided to forgo the legal way and steal something. He had spent his childhood eating in trash bins or stealing from shops when Vernon or Petunia didn't found him (or his work) worthy of any food, so he wasn't perturbed at the idea of stealing things. Also, he didn't want to eat something that had the time to mature in the summer heat; he would be sick. And eating food that would be vomited was a waste of time.

So Harry stopped at a café that was just opening, using his stealth skills to evade the hungry and tired workers about to start their day. He left with two muffins and a bottle of water – or what filled his pockets – and ate as he continued walking, evading cars and keeping careful eyes on other pedestrians or bicycles around him. It would be just his luck to break the Statute of Secrecy by having a cyclist run into him while he was invisible.

It was then that he heard the voice. And, even though he had only heard it once in his life, he recognized it immediately.

"Do you have a particular destination in mind or are you wandering aimlessly?" The voice asked with a polite and pensive tone. "Because if you do not know where you are going, I suggest getting a map before walking any further."

Harry came to an halt, his eyes looking around with panic. His fir wand left his new holster, his concerns about getting an owl from the Ministry not important enough that he would risk his life not to get one. Hermione might disagree, but she wasn't with him and thus he would ignore her all he wanted.

Finally, Harry spotted him. It took him precious seconds to do that, Tom Riddle's presence almost flickering in front of his eyes. He wasn't gray like a ghost, but his colours were faded or see-through. The only exception to that was Riddle's blood red eyes, looking as eerie and intense as Harry remembered _._ They sent shivers down his spine and made him nervous, but it wasn't anything that Harry couldn't work with.

So destroying the diary had not killed Riddle – _great_. When Ginny had been saved, he had strongly suspected it... But now Riddle was right next to him, his arms crossed behind his back like the perfect student he acted like. The polite expression on his face made him look utterly angelic and Harry felt his stomach rebel at the other's sight.

Maybe he shouldn't have eaten that muffin so quickly.

He knew that the Devil was a fallen angel, but did Riddle really needed to be the perfect incarnation of Lucifer? A devious mind hidden behind a handsome face. The worst kind of monster on this earth : capable of making you sell your soul even though you knew that he was playing with you.

"Voldemort?" His voice was hesitant, maybe a little hoarse too. He coughed and wished he could take a mouthful of water to ease his throat – but he wasn't willing to move his eyes from the Dark Lord, so he waited.

"Indeed." The wraith smiled condescendingly, as if he was a puppy who did a nice trick. It infuriated him.

"Wha... What are you doing _here_?" Harry snapped. "I destroyed the diary, you should be gone."

Riddle nodded slowly, his intense stare still unwavering. He didn't seem to need to blink. "Yes, I should. But I am not. Do you not find this curious?"

Harry's left eye twitched. "Not really. I just want you gone."

Riddle smiled innocently. "My, I am wounded. And here I thought that we got on so well with each other."

"Then you need your brain checked. Failing to kill me three times _does not_ mean that we're friends."

Riddle raised an eyebrow – the only sign of surprise that he showed. "Three? Ah, I see. You think that I am my older self. I was not aware of a third failed murder attempt between you and him."

Harry stared blankly at the innocent-looking ghost-like Riddle in front of him, his tired and hurting mind trying to understand what Voldemort was telling him.

"So, you're telling me you're not the insane mass-murderer that almost killed half of Britain's wizarding population? Not the Lord Voldemort who casted an Killing Curse at one-year-old me?"

Riddle twitched when Harry mentioned Voldemort's insanity, but otherwise simply smiled and nodded. "Yes. I am a memory, preserved into a diary for fifty years – the Dark Lord, the one you call Lord Voldemort, only came after me."

"You opened the Chamber of Secrets, twice, killed Myrtle and almost killed me and Ginny." Harry deadpanned. "I'm not an idiot – and you just implied that what you are right now became what Voldemort _is_. Not really reassuring."

The corner of Riddle's lips pulled up in a half-smirk and his eyes flashed with an unknown emotion. "Forgive me. In my days, lions only had enough of a brain to know how to grip a wand, if even that. I am not used to Gryffindors and intelligence mixed together."

"Hogwarts Houses have nothing to do with real life." Harry mumbled. "And it's not because you're in one House that you can't fit in others."

Riddle tilted his head in concession. "True."

A moment of silence passed before Harry talked again.

"Why are you here? Shouldn't you be trying to get a body and conquer the world or something?"

Riddle smiled indulgently and Harry could almost hear him call him cute in some kind of condescending voice. His shoulders tensed and he was gripping his wand tightly – he was also pretty sure that his eyes were glaring daggers into Riddle's transparent hide.

"I am unable to get further than sixteen feet from you." Riddle stated with a friendly smile, ignoring Harry's sudden gaping expression at the creepy statement. What a way to break the tension, Harry would need to remember it. "When it became obvious, I waited for the perfect moment to introduce myself – you have quite an eventful life, you know? I had no idea that the Boy-Who-Lived was being abused."

Harry's cheeks flushed. "I'm not abused!"

The flat look he received made him flush harder and he looked away.

"I swear, I'm not." Harry insisted. "It's the first time... Vernon never treated me like that before." Beside a slap or two, or maybe a hard grip to shove him into his cupboard/room, it had been Dudley who had been the one to hurt him the most. Petunia refused to touch him in case he was contagious or something, and he was always capable of avoiding her when she either threw or swung something at him (bar that first time with the frying pan when he was six, but he had not been expecting it, so it _didn't count_ ).

"If you say so, Potter." Riddle mused aloud. The older teenager then sighed and shook his head. "Though I wonder what changed since my time, for the Ministry to actually leave a magical child of magical origins in the care of muggles. Were the Potter kicked out of their Alliance? Or is the whole group dead?"

Harry paused, thinking. Nope, never heard of that. "Alliance? What the Hell is that?"

"Language." Riddle said in an uncaring voice, seemingly out of habit, before he stared at Harry as if he was trying to read his mind. Which was a worrying thought, now that Harry was thinking about it, because now he _knew_ that it was actually possible to enter someone else's mind. He also knew that Riddle had both the drive and discipline to actually study Mind Magics instead of taking the easy route and learning short-cuts like Lockhart had done with the Memory Charm.

The Obliviate spell dealt with erasing or modifying memories, and, from the books he and Hermione had found in the Hogwarts library, was a spell invented in 1612 by Mnemone Radford, the first Obliviator ever. The lady in question had been a Master Legilimens, which already enabled her to modify memories, but it took quite a lot of time to have enough experience in Legilimency to be able to correctly modify someone else's mind (without killing them or turning them varying degrees of insane, at least), so she had created the Memory Charm for those who did not have the mental discipline to take up the (quite difficult) Mind Magic studies.

"So you don't know. How curious." Riddle murmured, more to himself than to Harry, before his voice took a Listen-to-me-I-will-not-repeat-myself edge. "A Family Alliance is a regroupement of magical families – most often Pureblood – that unite in the hope of protecting themselves or gaining some sort of support, sometimes both. On political grounds, it means that you cannot go against a member of your Alliance unless said member gave you permission. But it also means that, should something happen to your family, the Alliance will be there to help, either to provide financial support, manpower or simply to foster your children until their seventeen birthday. You can either pull your Family out of an Alliance or be kicked out of it if the majority votes your exclusion, but neither happen really often."

Harry blinked, remembering that he had not slept in a while, but that saying 'huh' or another similar sound would probably annoy the teenage Dark Lord and that irritating said teenage Dark Lord was a Bad Thing. Also something he shouldn't do.

But he eventually connected the dots and his answer wasn't too moronic. "And you're wondering why my father's Family Alliance, which you know existed in your time, let my guardianship go to muggles despite me being born in the wizarding world."

The only sign that he was right was a raised eyebrow. Harry's answer to that was a shrug and a probably exhaustion-induced blunt reply.

"Dumbledore must've said so." Harry yawned, then shrugged again. "People listen to him as if he's Merlin's gift to wizardkind. Or maybe they all died in the war. Or maybe they didn't like it when my dad married my mum – she's muggleborn, so maybe that's it. Or something."

Riddle hummed. "Maybe. But we'll go nowhere with conjectures. So, as I asked before, do you know where you are going? If not, I strongly recommend getting a map. I am unfamiliar with this time's layout of England and cannot be of much help."

Harry gave the other boy a tired look. "I don't have a map – and I don't know where to get one."

"Then continue walking." Riddle ordered, causing Harry to half-glare at him. "Usually you can find those in a tobacconist's shop or a petrol station – or you used to, in my time."

Harry nodded, a little bit unnerved at the repeated show of weakness. He had not thought that Riddle would be so frank with his ignorance, even though said weakness was a bit obvious from his sudden 'jump' in time. Still, he started walking.

Fifteen minutes later, Riddle spot a petrol station where Harry stole a few things, including some more food. Riddle then insisted on finding a resting place away from people, meaning they ended up, three hours later, squatting an abandoned house that smelled like rot and water damages. By that point, Harry was yawning and tripping on his feet every three steps – his body was past begging for some rest, and was outright betraying him. At least, that was what Harry was thinking at the moment.

Despite the place perfectly fitting Riddle's requirements of isolation, the teenage Dark Lord looked around with disdainful eyes. Harry, on the other hand, quickly found an area where there were not too many bugs infesting the walls and cleaned it a bit with his hands, intending on sleeping a little. After living in a cupboard with spiders and worms for most of his life, he wasn't easily disgusted by vermin or dirt. He _was_ a bit obsessed with cleanliness and tidiness, but he could live without it.

He would have gone mad in his Gryffindor dorm otherwise. Ron, Seamus and Dean were hardly the tidiest people around.

"Do you have something to write with?" Riddle asked, then nodded approvingly when Harry pulled a stolen pen from his pocket along with the map. "Good. Lay out the map, we need to figure out where you brought us."

Harry glared, but obeyed nonetheless, despite his eyelids weighting tons and his head planning a mutiny. Talking back to Riddle would only be a waste of time, since neither could harm the other (he was pretty sure, like 97.4% sure, that Riddle had tried to attack him, had maybe even attempted to possess his body, and had only decided to reveal himself because he figured there wasn't anything Harry could do to him either) and they had no time to waste. Harry was bone tired, and the quicker Riddle knew what he wanted to know, the quicker Harry would get sleep.

Harry would have ended up doing this anyway, if a bit later, so he really wasn't obeying Riddle. But he wouldn't say so out loud not to rile up the teenager, because Tom Riddle was a genius and Harry was persuaded he could work something out if he really wanted to hurt Harry.

"We left your village sometime around nine-thirty PM." Riddle murmured. "We left Marlow Road fifteen minutes ago..."

It took Harry one minute to spot the road Riddle had mentioned.

"Here!" He said, pointing the little line with the pen. "Marlow Road, Little Marlow..."

"And you turned there." Riddle said, his ghostly finger passing through the map as if it wasn't there. The older teen's face froze for a second, just long enough for Harry to see it, but Riddle quickly recovered his serene and impassive expression. "We are on Muschallik Road – you have been walking deeper into the island, and quite quickly at that."

Harry hummed. So he had. It wasn't like he had had a particular place he wanted to go to – he just wanted to put as much distance as he could between him and Vernon Dursley. "So, now that you know where we are, will you let me sleep?"

"Don't you want to have a _proper_ bed to fall asleep on?" Riddle asked, his voice mocking him. "You know, instead of having mould as your pillow."

Harry shrugged, before laying back on the spot he had cleared earlier. His cloak made a nice blanket, so he wouldn't be too cold.

"I'd sleep in a dump at this point, Riddle." Harry muttered back, shifting a bit to get more comfortable. "Not like I haven't before, but... not so bad, just the smell... and the slime, sometimes..."

He was about to fall asleep when Riddle spoke out again.

"Don't you want to put protections around this place, before sleeping? What if someone comes to get you back at your relatives' house?"

Harry groaned, but creaked an eye open to glare at the annoying wraith. "It's not the first time I've done this, Riddle, not even since I learnt about the wizarding world. And it's not like you'd let anything happen to me in my sleep, anyway. Who knows if me getting hurt will hurt _you_ too, huh? Good night."

"It's technically morning, Potter."

"I don't caaaare." He moaned. "Let me sleep."

"Why should I?"

Harry froze. Had Riddle really said that? He had. His eyes slit open and he gave the ghost-wannabe his most icy glare, putting all the strength of his headache behind it.

"You let me sleep and I don't tell you didn't disappeared like everyone assumed, Riddle. I'm pretty sure I could get exorcised or something, and _one word_ to the Headmaster would seal your fate, I'm pretty sure. Is _that_ good enough of a reason for you?"

Instead of looking angry, or even remotely irritated, Riddle smirked appreciatively. Harry's eye twitched, but Riddle didn't speak again, so he lowered his head back on his arm and closed his eyes.

It took him a while to fall asleep, much to his annoyance, but he couldn't shake off the unpleasantness of being watched by a teenage Dark Lord – it was like trying to fall asleep next to a teasing lion, not knowing what he'd do.

He stubbornly kept his eyes closed, though, and, eventually, Morpheus welcomed him in the Realm of Dreams.


	6. Interlude 1 : Diary

_Hello._

 _So, I was actually going to publish the continuation of Harry's 'summer adventures', but I had a small case of Writer's Block. Which lasted the whole week._

 _Then I remembered writing this - it was pure fun on my part though, not an actual chapter. But I perfected it a bit (had a hard time with the past tenses. If someone sees something wrong, please tell me?) and now Tom is ready to have his very own chapter._

 _Oh, by the way, thanks for the reviews! I had this stupid little giddy grin on my face when I noticed them._

 _Have a good read._

 _Disclaimer : I do not own Harry Potter._

* * *

When he had made his diary into an Horcrux, he had thought that the piece of soul imprisoned in it would be dormant, unaware of its surrounding or of the time that passed. It was only common sense, since the diary had no brain and thus no possibility of developing an awareness – of course, his muggle origins would always be responsible for ruining his life and this was an occasion they did not missed to remind him of that.

When the pain of the splitting had been over, he had been badly surprised when he had realised that he was still 'awake'. Time passed just as it had before he had been split off the main soul. Only, he had no body to distract himself with – he required no sleep, no food and had no bodily functions to take care of. Only then had he realised how much time humans wasted taking care of their needs.

With too much time on his now metaphorical hands, he had busied himself reliving his few good memories, again and again. It had quickly became boring, considering he had little good memories to begin with, so he had built a world of his own inside his prison, where he could wander as he liked and do what he wanted. He had even created paintings to adorn the walls of his very own Hogwarts – while he had never been one to appreciate company, he had come to realise that being alone and cut off from everything were two different things.

He did not know how he survived the following fifty years with his sanity (remotely) intact. The discovery that the anti-social creature he was, had always been, longed for companionship had _not_ been welcomed, nor was the fact that he had eagerly been waiting for someone to write inside the diary.

At first, though, you couldn't really write in it, since it was filled with Tom's personal notes. But then, one day when he had been busy recreating the Hufflepuff common room, he had felt the diary change. The soul and dark magic inside the diary had finally managed to corrupt it completely, tuning it to Tom's personality and desires.

Soon enough, Tom had felt the diary _itself_ develop an Allure (as he came to call it), prompting people to touch it and write in it. It had also allowed Tom to 'see/feel/know' outside the book, giving him the opportunity to create a web of compulsions around it and control the Allure to target someone in particular. He had estimated that it had taken about three years for the Horcrux to develop its defences beyond the basic ones the other Tom had given it, and so he had wasted no time trying out his new abilities.

He had first attempted to 'capture' himself, mostly to communicate – it _was_ boring inside, and Tom had been wondering if his other self would be so kind as to put him in a library where he would be able to read books through his new sixth sense. It was something he had quickly used to figure out where he had been (inside his old trunk in a secret compartment he had made in his Fourth Year), though his reach had been rather small and untrained at the time. He had quickly failed at getting his older self to communicate with him, and so he had tried again.

When this second attempt had caused his other self to _hide him away in the Cave_ , Tom had been furious. He had had no idea how the other Tom could have thought that he would have _preyed on himself_ – he had known and accepted his role, even if it had disgruntled him. Tom had had enough intelligence to know not to attempt to take over the primary soul, and his other self should have known that. That the other Tom didn't...

Well, it meant that the other Tom had thought that the Horcrux could not think by itself and had simply tried to ensnared the living beings near it as some kind of self-defence mechanism. Which made isolating the Horcrux the logical solution, even if Tom loathed to admit it. The best way to expose a dangerous artefact was to allow people to be harmed by said artefact, after all, and the last thing a Horcrux should be is exposed.

And so Tom waited, slowly driving himself mad in his isolation.

He had not known how long it had been before his other self had came to retrieve him, but it had felt like an eternity and a half. The older Tom had also felt like a completely other person, causing Tom to panic for a moment before his mind had caught up with him – it had to be his older self who had taken him out of the Cave, simply because nobody else knew of his ties to the place, even if the magical signature had been different than the one he remembered. The being who had touched him, though only briefly, had felt to his sense like an endless pool of dark magic, twisting and lashing out at the world in what had seemed to him to be madness. Tom had figured that it was a charm his other self had cloaked himself with to avoid recognition, and had left it at that.

He had briefly wondered what kind of magic could imitate the fearsome aura – was it runes, or maybe a cloth soaked in some sort of potions? –, but he had suddenly been given to someone else, which had sent Tom in another brief panic attack, before said someone else had hidden him among other books. Tom's attention had been caught with the promises of knowledge surrounding him and the thick magic filling the air around the diary, so he had taken the opportunity for what it had been (not to mention that his other self wouldn't have been stupid enough to give the diary to someone unworthy. After all he had still been Tom, he had been even _older_ and _more experimented_ , and Tom didn't _do_ stupid, only misguided, or prideful, mistakes). After a few days spent simultaneously absorbing knowledge from clearly illegal books, his sixth sense had found a personal grimoire – from which he learnt that he had been placed with the Malfoys.

But he had never gotten along with Abraxas Malfoy, only managing to charm his fiancée and sister, so how had he been trusted to the family? Unless Abraxas had died and the new Family Head was loyal to him? He had not known, and so he had been forced to let it go.

And so he had turned back his attention to his learning. The grimoire he had found had been written by one Ianus Malfoy, born in 1645, and had contained many immoral spells and old Malfoy secrets. Tom had been giddy with the opportunity for blackmail, so blatantly offered to him, that he had not reacted to anyone's presence around him – he had been busy learning everything he could from his surroundings, and he had known better than to attract attention to what he was from the Malfoys. He had been content waiting for the time his other self would take him back, because Tom Riddle would never indeterminately trust one of his Horcrux to someone else.

Tom Riddle couldn't trust anyone to that point.

He had been content... until he had been done with the books. After that, boredom had quickly made him more impulsive and he had tried to enthral the next person to enter the influence zone of the diary's Allure – but the man had known better than to write in him, and he had been ignored. All of his later attempts had also been ignored, until the day where the man had taken him out of what he had deduced was a hidden vault. Tom had been worried that the man had had enough of dealing with the diary (which was a ridiculous thought, one didn't discarded Tom Riddle's belongings if it had been given in the intention of _preservation_ and _protection_ , which clearly had been the case with the diary), but then he had found himself in the hands of Ginevra Weasley, daughter of Arthur Weasley and Molly Prewett and the youngest sister of six older brothers.

To be trusted into the hands of a child from a rival family... Tom had inwardly seethed in fury at the blatant _use_ he had been made of, but had nonetheless been grateful for the opportunity. The opportunity to build himself a body, to return himself to life, because what little Ginevra had told him about Lord Voldemort (the name had actually surprised him, the alias being to his memory nothing more than a name the purebloods had taken to call him with, uncomfortable as they were to call him by his muggle name) made him doubt about his deduction from before, when he had thought that the magical signature had been faked. What if it had not been? What if Lord Voldemort really _was_ insane (killing toddlers had certainly never been a part of his plans, nor had been decimating the Magical World)?

And so he had started the process of sucking the life (among other things) out of Ginevra 'Ginny' Weasley.

That had possibly been the worst (and best) decision of his existence.

Ginevra's life-force had been tainted by an instability he had not immediately recognized (to him, everyone was ridiculously slow-minded if not outright strange, especially in the Magical World) – he saw it eventually, though only much later. Her infatuation with the Saviour had been reminiscent of his own experiences with girls, so he had not questioned it, nor had he given importance to the way he was developing a similar kind of fascination with the boy. He had reasoned that it was simply because of Harry Potter's so-called 'vanquishing' of Lord Voldemort and that it was natural to want to know his enemy.

Re-opening the Chamber had been a decision born from a mix of nostalgia and a desire to get the boy's attention. He had already had his speech planned for their eventual meeting, after which he would kill the boy to finish his older self's job – it was a matter of pride, after all, to get rid of the one who had ended Lord Voldemort. It would also be a warning to Dumbledore, who had seemed to favour the child.

 _Lord Voldemort is back._ He had wanted to paint this on the walls with the boy's blood, to savour the fear on the old man's face and to laugh at the Magical World's stupidity for believing that a _child_ had killed any shape or form of Tom Riddle. The idea had sung to him as he had charmed his way into the Weasley girl's heart to drain her of her magic a little bit more. She had completely adored him, though it would probably change once she was stuck in the diary in his place (he had still needed a soul to anchor him to the world of livings, after all).

It was only when Ginevra had discarded him – she had thrown him in a _toilet!_ – that reason slowly returned to him. It had actually taken _Harry Potter_ writing to him without any kind of compulsion from Tom's Allure (Tom had been busy calling back for Ginevra, pulling the strings of fear and paranoia he had buried into her mind) for Tom to realise how... _unsubtle_ he had been feeling. Harry Potter's energy had been like a cold shower, kicking his genius mind awake, and so he had given the boy a boon for the service. He had invited the child in his memories, had offered him his version of the facts, all the while observing the strange being he had suddenly been presented with. Carefully analysing the object of his recent obsession (that might not have been all Ginevra's fault).

Harry Potter was not what he had expected. Of course, he looked a bit like Charlus Potter (the hair and golden skin, which seemed to be trademark Potter traits), but the nose and cheekbones were pure _Black_ , and the eyes... he had not known that it was possible for eyes to glow like the Killing Curse. They certainly were _not_ as green as a 'fresh pickled toad', but one could not really blame the girl for not knowing the color of the Killing Curse. It was hardly a spell children should be acquainted with.

But Tom's inspection had not been merely esthetical. He had dived into the boy's unprotected mind, as far as he could without eye-contact (it had been somehow substantial, considering that the boy had been _inside_ the Horcrux). He had watched his own memory through the boy's mind, taking notes on how the boy reacted and what made him tick. His fondness for Hagrid was something he had expected from Ginevra's reports on Potter's bi-weekly visits to the man, but he had thought that the boy would be at least _awed_ by The Great Albus Dumbledore (Gryffindors usually were).

Instead Tom had felt Potter's deep wariness and strong desire to stay away from the old man. Thinking himself alone, the boy had glared mistrustfully at the Deputy Headmaster, before turning worried when the subject of Hogwarts' closure was brought up. Tom had felt Potter's panic for the brief moment it happened, then Potter had forced himself to calm down to watch the rest of the memory.

Tom had effortlessly made the connections when he had felt the child's interest when Hagrid was caught with his 'baby' spider – though Potter had really believed that Hagrid was guilty. He had thought that it was fitting the man's personality, the flash of a dragon egg hatching accompanying the thought.

He had spared a moment to feel completely unimpressed (did the half-giant _never learn_?) before turning his interest to the plan forming in the Potter Heir's head. The child had been planning to frame Gilderoy Lockhart if the school was ever threatened to close, a plan Tom would have agreed with if it had not possessed one fatal flaw.

Potter had had no idea what kind of evidence to fake, and the few 'pieces' he could have slipped in Gilderoy's personal effects were too traceable upon acquisition (such as a gorgon's head or the illegal Stoning Elixir) to even think of buying. At least the Gryffindor had known how to eliminate the risks of Gilderoy defending himself : Obliviating the man with his own wand, as if Gilderoy had attempted to remove any knowledge of his plot from his mind, but, in the hurry, had over-powered the spell and rendered himself completely amnesiac. It was a good plan, and one Tom had thought of before, but never had the opportunity to put in motion.

At least, not before he had turned his diary into an Horcrux. He couldn't speak for his other self.

When Potter had finally been returned to the outside world, Tom had expected him to immediately demand explanations like any child would have. But Potter had surprised him again when he had closed the diary and hid it at the bottom of his trunk, never taking it out again and refusing Tom any more of his delicious life-force. Tom had been forced to wait until the boy needed more information to implant a 'need' to write in the diary in his mind, but things rarely happened the way Tom wanted them unless he directly manipulated them.

So, the next time he had been opened, he had been greeted by Ginevra Weasley's sickly magic, insane life-force and her childish mind.

He had to gently assure her that he would never have told her crush anything she told him. He had lied and cajoled until she had collapsed on her bed, exhausted from her tumultuous emotions, from her frantic search in the Second Year boys' dormitory and from the rather important amount of magic and energy he had taken from her small body.

He had decided, the moment he had learnt that the girl had stolen him from Potter, that he couldn't continue his slow conquest of the school. Not only would her insanity contaminate him once more, but the diary had been exposed to Potter, who had told his friends about him.

And so the first thing he had done was to attack the clever one (he had been careful to order the Basilisk not to kill her, though, because he _had_ beenintrigued by her brain). She would have only complicated things and hurried things along – his new plan had needed a perfect planning, but he still could not have acted with Dumbledore in the school. He had been nicely surprised when the last attack was all it needed to kick Dumbledore out of the school, along with the annoying half-giant, but it had been no trouble on his part. It had only meant that things could happen sooner.

Three weeks later, when Ginevra had been thoroughly drained of her life-force and magical energy, he had taken her down to the Chamber where only one boy could follow. He had prepared things for the arrival of the youngest ginger brother and the fraud Professor, to keep them busy while he entertained Potter, but things had started to go wrong when the boy had entered the Chamber's Hall five minutes before the glamour covering the writings on the wall was supposed to disappear.

What followed had been both interesting and terrifyingly fascinating. He had been mildly disappointed that he had to kill the child – if only Potter had kept writing in the diary, then he would have kept the boy as a pet as his soul filled his place in his prison. But then pain had filled his whole being, and he had known instinctively that the diary had been destroyed.

He had not expected to survive.

He had.

And the boy had continued to grow more interesting.

He had not made a single move while they had still been at Hogwarts, afraid that someone might have noticed him – the only advantage he had had was that no one would expect him, the diary having been destroyed, but you never knew with Dumbledore and now the man had been warned. So he had stayed invisible as Potter pulled him around the school with his clever friend. The mudblood's ability to remember anything she read promised to be useful in the future, just like the way she would look at Potter with more and more worried frowns as the summer break had approached.

He would not understand why until after Potter's journey through Diagon Alley (he did admit to having snickered the whole way as Potter had walked into people and other obstacles – it had been better than a Malfoy-Weasley comedy), when the boy had finally returned to his summer house.

He had been thinking about his ownership of the holly wand, and what it meant about wands in general that a soul without a body could still own one, when the child had arrived in his neighbourhood. He had listened with half an ear as the boy had talked to his owl – something about a Squib? – and had only snapped out of his trance when he had seen a muggle with a strong resemblance to a horse.

Then he had felt sick and furious when he saw the obese... thing. His fury had started to boil harder the more the muggle-thing spoke, and he had actually tried to _crucio_ the beast when it had attacked the boy he had adopted as his pet (because Tom had wanted to keep Potter despite knowing that he would probably kill him instead, but now that the killing part was unfeasible it meant that Tom _could_ keep him. Also, the boy was too entertaining to leave alone).

He had lingered as long as he could in the muggle house, using some of the magical energy he had managed to save from the diary's destruction to curse the muggle couple the way he had with the orphans in his youth, before the strange magic that tied him to Harry Potter had pulled him away.

Cursing something or someone did not actually needed much magic, unlike the Cruciatus. It was simply a seed that would be nurtured by the negative energy around it, until it eventually bloomed in a perfect nightmare. The lingering misery, hatred, jealousy and loneliness he had felt in the strange wards surrounding the property would feed the curse quickly enough, and he had estimated that it would only take one or two days before the first effects started to show.

He had quickly put the muggles out of his mind to center his attention on the fleeing Potter boy.

And this was what brought him to this moment, watching as his pet pulled his Invisibility Cloak around his body – but Tom could still see him, though he knew that it was only thanks to whatever tied Tom's soul to Potter's body.

He would try to see if he could possess him first. Being in the body of the Boy-Who-Lived would certainly have its perks, even more if one considered the clever friend that came with it. He was sure he could find a few things to use her brain for, especially things he had no time or desire to deal with.

A pleased smile curled his lips. He had the strangest feeling that he would not be able to possess Potter. He would be disappointed if things ended up being that easy.


	7. Chapter 6 : Scar

_Hello,_

 _Here's the new chapter. I feel like everything in here happens in less than an hour, so it's more like roller coaster than an 'adventure'... Well, you'll see._

 _I was also feeling a bit dramatic when writing this (more so than usual, I mean), so be warned that it seeped into the work. I did some damage control, but I'm still me, so... Yeah._

 _Have fun!_

 _Disclaimer : I do not own Harry Potter_

* * *

Harry was woken up by the flutter of wings followed by sharp claws piercing the skin of his shoulder. He went rigid as his eyes snapped open, though he calmed immediately when he recognized the tickling warmth that seemed to ooze gently from the new presence – it was Hedwig.

A cautious look from him met the furious amber glare directed at him and he smiled tentatively, even though he knew that it wouldn't help him. An angry Hedwig was a heartless Hedwig (for all that she usually was a mother hen when Harry was concerned), and Harry had only just realised that he had abandoned his beloved companion in Privet Drive. That she had to use her tracking abilities to hunt him down had probably fuelled quite a bit of her anger. He usually took her with him when he ran away.

"I'm sorry, love, I didn't mean to!" He exclaimed quickly, paling a little when she only appeared more irritated. "I swear! But Vernon was going to _kill me_ , and I _had_ to leave! You know I wouldn't have left you behind without a good reason! I knew you would find me, so I didn't worry!"

She continued to glare at him for a while, before huffing and finally jumping off his shoulder to perch on a broken armchair, looking at their surroundings with a disdainful air eerily similar to Tom Riddle's earlier that day (he shoved that last observation deep, _deep_ inside his brain, where he would be less likely to think back on it and compare more of his two companions' attitudes).

"That is possibly one of the strangest things I have seen in a while." The devil's voice murmured on his left, startling him. "A familiar bond with a _messenger owl_? I would not be more surprised if you had just told me that your life goal was to become a fairy godmother – which I hope it is not. You certainly are on the wrong path if it is. Nothing selfless or pure enough about you to fit the role."

Harry's surprise morphed into annoyance and he deadpanned at the thinking expression Riddle was wearing. _Fairy godmother? And who was he to speak about selflessness?!_ "Hedwig is no mere _messenger owl_ , Riddle. She can find anyone anywhere and most spells don't work on her. Even McGonagall couldn't Transfigure her into a goblet." On the first try, anyway. Then she had add a twirl to her wand movements and it had worked, but she had refused to tell him why.

Interest flashed into Riddle's eyes and he looked appreciatively at Hedwig, who was doing an imitation of a statue on her perch. It made Harry realise that he had just boasted to a very dangerous person about his dear owl's _unique_ abilities, when even Hermione didn't know (he was sure that she at least suspected that something was off about Hedwig, but that she dismissed it because _it was a magical owl, of course they're better than non-magical ones_. Hermione was like that, not seeing the obvious because it clashed against what she already 'knew'). It was a relief that Riddle was a ghost-something, because otherwise Harry knew that the teenager might have tried to do something.

Might still attempt something, despite his limitations. He'd have to keep an ear out for subtle mentions at making use of Hedwig. For whatever things he wanted to do that Harry did not really know about yet (he would have to rectify that, too).

"Truly? Impressive." The teen said before he schooled his expression into a slightly condescending mask, as if he was some greater being offering a simpleton basic knowledge. Harry figured the comparison might not actually be one in Riddle's eyes. "Still, my statement stands. Most magicals would not think of their owls as potential familiars. They are too often away to suit a familiar's requirements and are put at risks whenever they are given things to deliver, both from natural disasters to possible malicious intents from the recipients of the deliveries. Not mentioning that sending a familiar to deliver a letter would be seen as a declaration of deference by many families."

Harry stared. Then blinked. And finally sighed.

"It's not like Hedwig would allow me to use any other owl but her for these things." He muttered. "It's her pride and pleasure, ya know. She'd claw my eyes out if I tried to use another owl."

Whatever Riddle had been about to say was interrupted by Hedwig's loud hoot, and Harry blinked at her. Her claws were digging in the wood of her perch as she quickly flapped her wings, snapped her beak a few times, then twisted her head around before glaring at him again.

He stared for a moment, before it clicked in his head. Considering that it was the first time he had ever seen his dignified Hedwig act like that, he thought he did a good job of understanding.

On a side note, was Hedwig okay?

"You can't see him!" He exclaimed, before shrinking from her annoyed look – okay, still sensible about him leaving without her. And she probably wouldn't be happy about Riddle, either. "Ah, well. You know, I told you that Riddle had disappeared after the diary was destroyed? Well, huh, it's funny, really, but he's not really gone. Just... you know. Invisible. And he can't get more than sixteen feet away from me."

The last part still needed to be verified through experiments, but Harry thought that the gist of it was true – Riddle couldn't get away from Harry. How _far_ away was another matter, because Harry himself would not have told anyone of the exact length of any kind of leash someone had on him. A few centimetres could make all the difference in the world, after all.

Hedwig's Death Glare was back and Harry smiled sheepishly. "You know I don't get a say in the things that happen to me, love. But I'm sorry you have to deal with such a troublesome wizard. It must get tiring after a while."

Hedwig huffed and flapped her wings once, her way of saying that she was resigned to her fate. His smile turned fond.

"I'm truly the luckiest human out here." He said, because he knew that Hedwig liked compliments. And, in his mind, she deserved every single one of them, so it wasn't _quite_ buying his way back into her good graces through flattery. "To have such a wonderful owl putting up with me. I don't know what I would do without you, love."

The look she gave him was a clear mix of 'you would be miserable, of course' and 'don't you dare forget it'. He absently wondered where Hedwig had developed such a big ego, and if he should have been a bit less forthcoming when complimenting her whenever he saw her. He was just so happy to be with her...

Yeah, he had fed her ego to immeasurable heights, hadn't he? Oh, well. It didn't really mattered in the long run. Plus, she was beautiful and smart enough to earn the right to said ego.

"You are laying it a bit thick." Riddle commented lightly. "If I had a body, I would feel sick."

"If you had a body, I would kick you." Harry retorted back.

"Is this a way to talk to the only person who can help you in your situation?" Riddle asked innocently, raising a single eyebrow to accentuate his point. "From what I can tell, you are not overly fond of your ginger friend, and the girl is leaving the country. You mistrust your Headmaster and your _only other friend_ is a completely loyal follower of his. You are efficiently isolated. With _me_."

Harry blinked, trying not to show how his stomach had reacted to the last words. Because Harry certainly had a body, and now he also certainly felt sick. _How long was he going to have to share his life with a psychopath? How long until he got rid of him? Was that even possible?_

"You do remember when I said that this wasn't my first time in the streets, right?" Harry asked after a while. It had taken a few minutes to get rid of the apprehension tying his tongue, but he had used the time to think of something to say. Or, more precisely, to think about what he _couldn't_ say. Telling the other to fuck off had not seemed the wisest thing to voice after the gentle warning/threat he had just been given, and discussing about their forced cohabitation before he had the time to think about it sounded like blindly running into a trap. So he had to keep the topic safe.

"Of course." Riddle replied. "But I was not speaking about your unstable lodgings for this summer. Nor about this new development between the two of us."

He stared for a minute, inwardly wondering if this was what Ron felt like every time Hermione opened her mouth. He certainly hoped that he didn't looked brain dead, though.

"I'm just buying myself time, though." Harry finally said, still wondering about Riddle's words. What _could_ he be talking about? Should he ask about it? "I can only afford a few days before I have to go back."

Riddle seemed to freeze, before his polite expression melt into one of disbelief. "You would go back _there_? For _whatever reason_?"

"I tried to run away after I got my Hogwarts letter." Harry explained, looking at Hedwig in an attempt to look calm and composed. He probably failed, though. "Hagrid dropped me on Privet Drive after shopping and left, thinking I would go back to _their_ house, but instead I walked away. He came back three days later, I never knew how he realised I... Damn! It was her! It was _fucking her_! She ratted on me!"

He gritted his teeth as he thought about the path he had taken to go away from Privet Drive that time. He couldn't remember if he had walked by her house, but there weren't a hundred ways to leave Privet Drive, and it was possible that one of the _other_ neighbours saw him and gossiped.

"Language." He heard again, but a little bit drier than the last time. "And who would be this 'her' you are talking about?"

"Arabella Figg." Harry hissed, his nails digging into his palms. "My babysitter. She's a Squib. She moved in not long after the Dursleys took me in – Aunt Petunia used to say that the 'crazy cat lady' followed my 'freaky scent' to their 'peacefully normal neighbourhood'. "

"A spy, I see." Riddle murmured. "And I suppose that she does regular checks on you. Won't the fans on their doorstep alarm her, though?"

Harry grinned when he remembered what he had done. When he remembered his plan (it might be based on his spontaneous decisions and Vernon's strange behaviour that night, but it had good chances of working, so Harry didn't bother with the details). If he was particularly lucky, the day he would 'go back' would be the day Number 4 was deemed 'unsafe' due to too many people knowing where his summer whereabouts were. Or maybe the Dursleys would expose how much they disliked 'freaks' and tried to kill some of Harry's fans, maybe seriously hurting a few of them, and Dumbledore would have no other choice than to let Harry leave that 'dangerous and unfit for magical children' place.

Still, even if it took a few more days for his plan to come into fruition, he would not be staying at Number 4, Privet Drive. He would go look for his old hideouts and visit the Dursley's house when the family was gone to 'charge the wards', but he wouldn't _stay_ there. Absolutely _no way_.

"Hopefully not before they drive the Dursleys barmy." He said with a sigh. "I'm looking forward the day I can visit them at the asylum, or maybe at the cemetery. I'm not picky about that."

Riddle smiled at him – it was half-amused and half-tender, as if Harry was a puppy who gave paw for an extra treat. It freaked Harry out to the point that he took a step toward Hedwig and away from the spirit. Hedwig looked around with a glare, searching for a threat. "So eager... I wonder what Dumbledore would think if he knew that his protégé had such _dark_ thoughts..."

"I'm pretty sure he already knows what I think about them." Harry replied – his voice broke in the middle of 'what', making him grimace uneasily. Scary Smiling Riddle was no good for his nerves. Especially when the smile widened with a mocking edge after he spoke, as if he had missed something obvious. Or maybe the older teen was just finding his predicament with his voice funny? It was just puberty, honestly! He wasn't _intimidated_.

Not to the point of having difficulties speaking, anyway (Riddle was a ghost, sort of, so he _couldn't hurt him_ ). He was just a little bit wary. It was normal, the other guy had admitted to growing up into a Dark Lord! Harry wasn't so naive as to forget that! Nor was he Dursley-stupid – he didn't 'forget' things that were not to his likings or normal enough.

"Does he know that you are contemplating murder?" Riddle asked, true curiosity in his voice.

"Probably not." Harry admitted after a moment of studying the other's face. He shoved his hands in his trousers' pockets and shrugged. "I mean, I don't _plan_ to kill, it's just too bothersome to deal with bodies, it just happens sometimes. I don't go hunting down people to slaughter, unlike a certain Dark Lord I know..."

"Oh?" Riddle's eyebrow twitched at the jab, then his face cleared. "Ah, yes, I remember you mentioned that you met my older self. He tried to kill you, didn't he? When did it happen? How did he failed?"

Of course Riddle would be interested, Harry thought. Even if this simply was another plot from Voldemort and the ghost in front of him wasn't really sixteen (which he didn't really believed, what with Riddle acting differently than the Voldemort he had met – less insane, for one), Riddle would have shown interest in Voldemort, at least to strengthen his cover or to get Harry's thoughts on the subject. Still, he decided to tell him – Riddle twitched every time Harry spoke about Voldemort's irrationality and it was fun to watch.

 _This tendency of his to poke at dangerous situation would come back to bite him in the arse one day, but he couldn't help doing it again and again, even after it exploded in his face so many times before. Don't tickle a sleeping dragon, was it?_

"He was possessing Quirrel, the Defence professor, last year." Harry informed the teen. "Quirrel was hiding him under his turban and..."

"Wait." Riddle was frowning, his head tilted slightly to the side as if seeing Harry from another angle would make things sound different. "What do you mean, 'under his turban'?"

Harry gave him a shit-eating grin. _Don't do it, don't do it Harry, don't..._ " _Your_ older self is, right now, by his own admission, 'mere shadow and vapour'. The only way he can get a form is when he is possessing someone else – he's even less than a _ghost_ , right now, less than _you_. So, when he possessed Quirrel, he had to hide Voldemort's face that had grown on the back of his skull. Quirrel even had to drink unicorn blood to survive the possession."

There was a pause, then Harry's head exploded in pain.

"Unicorn _blood_!" Riddle's face was a mix of horror and fury, but Harry was sadly in no state to appreciate it. He had collapsed on the ground from the pain, hissing as his nails dug in his forehead. _He really shouldn't have done it..._ "How... the fool! What even was he... He was not thinking _at all_! No matter how _desperate_ I would never...! Insane doesn't make it! Only an _idiot_ or a _fool_ would _damn himself_..."

Harry tried to listen as Riddle ranted, but it was a rather difficult thing to do when it seemed like his very brain was taking a bath into boiling oil. He could hear Hedwig's frantic hooting under the pounding of his heart in his ears, but it was a distant thing and he dearly hoped that he wasn't about to faint. The pain wasn't quite as painful as the Basilisk venom-induced torture, but it was certainly a close second.

Then the pain stopped, leaving him panting on the dirty floor with sticky cheeks and lips _(blood_ , he realised when he licked them). He took a moment to savour the peace, getting his breathing back in order before he looked up where Riddle had been.

The teen was looking at him with open curiosity and fascination, which made Harry shiver at the sheer creepiness of the expression. There was also greed in those gleaming red eyes, but Harry couldn't understand what it was about.

It couldn't be about Harry himself, right? Though he wouldn't put it past Riddle to think of Harry as his servant or something, Riddle had tried to kill him recently. And there was a difference between 'I want this guy dead' and 'I want to make this guy my slave' – one was about to get rid of Harry, the other about keeping him. In the first case, Harry was a bother, in the other he was useful.

Right now, Harry might fit in the 'useful' category, but it was probably just until Riddle was back at being fully capable of walking away from him. Harry would have to think of something for the time when that happened, to prepare accordingly for Riddle's attempts at eliminating him.

Because that time would come. Harry had no doubt that Riddle would manage to acquire a new body for himself in the near future, and all Harry could do was to try to delay it. It was not an immediate concern, since Harry was sure that Riddle wanted to get up to date with the modern world before attempting his comeback. There was also the worry of acting right under Dumbledore's nose.

So Harry possibly had until graduation to think of a way to assure his survival. Less time if Dumbledore died before then (he was an old man, after all, and he had many enemies), and then there was Voldemort. Riddle would probably be willing to help Harry survive the threats that came with being the Boy-Who-Lived, even if it meant opposing his older self (that he did not seemed to like too much anymore, _hooray for Harry_ ), but there would always be the risk that the older teen would use Voldemort's plans for Harry to his advantage.

Harry didn't expected anything less of him, but he hoped that the other expected sabotage on Harry's part.

"You scar is bleeding." Riddle murmured intensely, startling Harry at his sudden proximity – the teen was bent over Harry's fallen body, his red eyes alight with eagerness and focused on his forehead. Riddle's left hand hovering above his hair, as if he was torn between touching him and staying away. "No, more like... it's _crying_ blood. It's red, swollen, but not reopened. A cursed scar, gained the night of _his_ defeat – Sowilo Merkstave*, false success, gullibility, retribution and justice, Wrath of god. Does it mean _you_ , or what you can bring, I wonder?"

For all that he didn't follow everything that just came out of Riddle's mouth, Harry understood that his scar probably meant more than what he had thought it did – a _cursed scar_ , was it? And it meant something? He certainly hoped it didn't mean that he was gullible (because he'd then be one of the things he despised). He liked the idea of being the 'Wrath of god', though, and the 'retribution' thing (as long as he wasn't the target of either) sounded nice too.

"Is it important?" He asked when Riddle's hand started to hover closer to his head. His body felt like jelly, so he couldn't really crawl away or anything, but he didn't want the other to touch him – walking through a ghost felt like being drenched in cold water and Harry had no desire to find out if touching Riddle would provoke the same reaction.

Riddle's hand paused, like Harry had hoped it would, and the older teen gave him an annoyed look.

"Of _course_ it is important, Potter." Riddle looked like he was about to sneer at him, but his face morphed back to a fascinated expression when his eyes returned to staring at his scar. "A cursed scar means that _you_ are cursed, just like runic tattoos can anchor spells into your body. For all that the practice has lessened since the early 1600s, it doesn't make the principle any less _important_. I thought that it merely was a ritual scar issued from whatever protected you that night, a mark of past success, but it is still _active_. That is the sign of a _curse_. A curse most likely tied to me – and _him_ \- but _he_ would not have cursed you before throwing the Killing Curse, it would have been a waste of magic. It means that either _someone else_ cursed you, which is ridiculous since the curse is tied to us, or that the curse was created from the leftover malignant magical energy of what happened that night. Which is possible but not likely, since you visibly reacted to my anger – a curse does not creates an empathic connection, you need two willing parties for that and I doubt _he_ would have ever wanted you to know when he was feeling angry."

Harry inwardly agreed with that, but didn't dare to interrupt Riddle. All that Dumbledore had told him about a leftover mark from _that night_ was that his mother's love had burned Quirrel alive, and he wasn't ashamed to admit that he was eager to know more about that night. If Dumbledore, who wanted to wait to tell him more until he was 'ready', refused to explain this to him, then he'd take Riddle's explanations without any protest. The other seemed to want to know just as much as Harry about it, so he probably wouldn't lie in hope that Harry would also share what he knew about it.

"So the curse is only part of what your scar is." Riddle continued, tilting his head a bit and narrowing his eyes. "One can try to learn the symbolism of the scar to know more, but it is not related to any kind of connection. The rune Sowilo Merkstave, from the Elder Futhark, is a Norse rune, so the Norse Mythology could hold some clue about it, but I can not see what right now. Then there is the rune itself : the rune of the Sun lying in opposition. The scar could be the mark of the false victory over _him_ , since he has not been killed completely – a mark of unfinished business, of Justice waiting to be given on the guilty party. It could mean destroying fire, as opposed to the purifying one the rune usually means, and weakness. _Or_ , it could be a reference to the Tarot card, the Sun which, reversed, means a fake, corrupted or unhealthy happiness. Your scar could represent any of those things, applicable to yourself either as a representation of _who you can be_ or of _what you can do_. But there is still no indication on what is the connection between you and us – and so I must conclude that the connection is only _anchored_ in the scar."

Riddle threw him a smirk not unlike the one he had worn back in the Chamber, gleeful and bloodthirsty, tinted with an edge of what Harry could only call 'angry triumph' even if it didn't quite made sense to him. Then Harry felt something warm _inside his head_ and he gasped as a shiver shook his whole body.

"And _very few things_ can be anchored to things they do not belong to." Riddle continued, his voice raw and low. "A ward can not be put on a living being, we have already concluded that the curse and the connection are two different things, so that leaves only two possibilities. Since neither you or I are magical creatures, it must be the other one. The _fool_ anchored a _piece of his soul_ to your _scar_."

Harry's heart skip a beat. What...? He had a piece of _Voldemort_ 's soul _in his scar_?

"But _he_ still tried to kill you." Riddle continued, mostly to himself as he wasn't looking at Harry's horrified expression. " _He_ either doesn't know that it's there, or _he_ doesn't care. Considering that _he_ willingly drank _unicorn blood_ , _he_ probably would not care even if _he_ learnt of it."

Riddle paused, then smiled. It was a sweet, _happy_ smile, as if Riddle had just been told something cute or funny, and it turned Harry's blood into ice.

"Dumbledore probably knows of it, I can not see him not knowing." The smile widened. "Ha! What _benevolent_ wizard he is! Did you know, Harry? You were right to mistrust him. He really does not care about you. He is planning your death, you see?"

Harry choked.

"Because I can not die while you are alive." Riddle smiled charmingly at him. "And neither can Lord Voldemort."

* * *

 _I tried to make Tom look a bit demented at the end. Did I succeed?_

* _When one adds 'Merkstave' to a rune, it either means reverse (upside down) or lying in opposition (face down). When the rune is place as such, it usually has a darker meaning than it usually does (like in Tarot). Or so this is what I understood from my small research._


	8. Chapter 7 : Repeat

_Hello,_

 _Long time no see, right?_

 _I guess I could apologise, or maybe explain how, in a fit of delusions, I erased all the work I had done on this chapter. Or I could describe how I knew exactly how things were going to happen, but had trouble writing it down. Or even how irritating it was to stare at my computer screen and not be able to write more than a few words at a time._

 _But you don't really care, do you?_

 _Here, have fun._

 _Disclaimer : I do not own Harry Potter_

 _PS: Someone dies at the end of the chapter. And things get a tiny little bit violent. And... well, you'll see._

* * *

Harry woke up to a normal Friday morning at Number 4, Privet Drive – well, as normal as possible since Vernon had lost his job about a month ago. Petunia had made it her duty to discreetly send him to his room as soon as he had arrived (without dinner, of course, but he had expected that), telling him in hushed tones that her husband was particularly sensitive right now and that Harry should try not to antagonize him like usual. Harry had mourned his lost hobby, but he had, for some reason, agreed not to purposely look for trouble. It wasn't like he usually irritated Vernon non-stop, but he could be found throwing in a pique or two a day to ruin the 'perfect British family' act the Dursley had going on. Dudley was still free game, though, but he felt like staying away from his cousin.

Harry stared at the ceiling with a frown, wondering why he _also_ wanted to lock himself up in his room so suddenly. Sure, it was summer and Dudley's gang could usually be found hunting victims to bully in the neighbourhood, but wasn't it always that way? Receiving a beating or two was worth the illusion of freedom. If he stayed in the house, Petunia would most likely work him like a slave while she watched her summer housewife dramas – and with Vernon looking for jobs in the newspaper in the kitchen (cough* _watchingtheTVthere_ *cough), the man would feel free to insult him and criticize his every moves. He also didn't want to stay in his room in fear of being completely locked in like the previous summer. He didn't know if he could make himself swallow a single cold soggy vegetable ever again.

His thoughts not getting anywhere, he sat up and massaged his temples. He hated headaches, but he normally didn't have them often, only after a long period of starvation. Or of dehydration. Or of intense workout. Or of missing glasses induced blindness.

...now that he thought about it, headaches weren't that rare, especially during the summer. They were still highly unpleasant and he glared at his hands as if blaming his appendages for the pain. It certainly wasn't, but he wasn't in the mood to find the true responsible party.

"Finally awake, I see." A clear and deep voice rang next to his ear, making him freeze. He _knew_ that voice. But it was _impossible_... He was _dead_!

Harry turned his head, his horrified eyes meeting the gleaming red orbs only a few inches away from him. He yelped in terror and crawled backward on the bed away from the transparent apparition, but only managing to trap his foot in his thin sheet and send the upper half of his body down the bed. His left cheek hit the wooden floor as he twisted around to keep the ghost-like teen in his blurry sight. He felt something tingle on his face and ferociously wiped his forehead, but feeling no known or unknown substance on his skin despite the strange feeling.

Riddle only smiled more widely at him, amused by his reaction, and straightened his back from his slightly bent position over the bed. Harry glared, feeling much like a kitten trying to threaten a snake. Considering that he was only wearing pyjama pants, his sentiment of vulnerability could pretty much only increase if he lost his pants and got tied up. Which he really didn't want to and he didn't want to know why he was still thinking about it.

Riddle was standing tall, his straight back and squared shoulders making his slender body look more imposing. His hands were behind his back and he was looking down his nose at the fallen boy. Arrogance suited him, in a way... though Harry would never be caught alive even _thinking_ about it ever again. _Ever, EVER again._

Why did his thinking process worked against him when he had headaches?

"Good morning, Potter." The apparition said in a happy voice. Harry wanted claw that smug smile off his face, but it would mean getting closer to the teen and that wasn't anywhere near Harry's Top 10 List of Things He Wanted to Do. For some strange reason, it also wasn't on his Top 10 List of Nightmares – which, weird. Why wasn't 'getting in Voldemort's personal space' not on that particular list?

He should really try to stop thinking. Especially about these kinds of things, it was doing him more harm than good. _So why wasn't he stopping?_

"Riddle." Harry said, before nervously licking his lips. _Don't show weakness, distract him while you think of a plan_... _even if you have absolutely no freaking idea where to start._ "So, how was Hell? Met any nice people there? Was the view enjoyable? The screams pleasant?"

The corner of Riddle's lips curled up in an expression Harry that could only describe as condescending amusement. Riddle gave a little sigh, before lowering his eyelids over his crimson eyes. "Nice, pet. A little bit dryer and I would have almost thought you cared."

Harry's brain immediately suffered technical error. The world around him disappeared as his mind focused on a single thought, and his body only kick-started his thought-process because of air deprivation. He considered his reaction completely valid and not exaggerated _at all_.

 _P-P-PET? Who the HELL is he calling PET?_

" _What?_ " He exclaimed, before pulling his legs off the bed and twisting himself in a sitting position. _Gather yourself, Potter! Don't let him get to you!_

A deep and hopefully discreet breath later, he looked up suspiciously at the older teen, who was still smiling at him – as if he had all the time in the world. Harry narrowed he eyes, before deciding to be uncooperative. He wasn't going to dance to Riddle's tune, even if it meant getting answers sooner. And, just like Riddle, he had all the time in the world (it was still the beginning of his summer vacations, after all).

A few minutes passed in silence before Riddle sighed in mock disappointment, his mouth still curled in an amused smirk. His head throbbed at the flash of annoyance caused at the teenager's reaction.

"Not even magic can curb that stubbornness of yours, it seems." The see-through teen noted pensively and Harry's attention sharpened. "Oh, well, you already owe me, I suppose it will be enough. Right, Potter?"

"What are you talking about?" He didn't like how Riddle acted like Harry was missing something important, especially if it concerned something Harry _owed_ the other. Because the last thing he remembered of the teen was his scream of agony, after he had sent his two thousand years old Basilisk to kill Harry and Harry decided to get even by stabbing his diary.

If Harry owed Riddle – for whatever reason – then something had happened. Something he didn't remember.

* * *

 _A flash of red hair, colourful clothes put together in an odd order – Mr Weasley was talking to him, the words turned to gibberish by the water his head was under._

 _"_ _...worried... like that... bledore. He had... favours... relatives must... will send... okay."_

 _Wait, his head wasn't underwater. It just felt like it. And Mr Weasley was talking still, pulling him toward a small cottage of red bricks and bright blue mortar. Which, weird. He was dragging his feet, not wanting to follow the older wizard._

 _The cottage's front door opened as they stopped on the doorstep and Harry was temporarily blinded by neon orange and purple._

* * *

 _Ow._ His head throbbed in a particularly painful way, starting from somewhere behind his ears and shooting straight to his temples. He blinked, looked at himself and wondered what he was doing on the ground. He was wearing his pyjama pants – had he fallen from the bed? Had he hit his head, was that where the pain had came from?

He sighed, then pushed himself on his feet. He looked up, planning on going back to his bed and trying to sleep the day away, but something he saw made him yelp in horror. Something terrible that shouldn't be anywhere close to Number 4, Privet Drive.

"Riddle! Wha... You're dead!" His heart pounded heavily in his chest and Riddle's smirk widened.

"Am I?" Riddle wondered, sounding more amused than pensive. "Perhaps I am lucky. Or maybe _you_ are not."

"When did you get here?!" Harry slowly pushed himself backward, closer to the wall and further away from the teenage Dark Lord, only to realise that his back was already against the wall. His new glasses were also on his nose – had he fallen asleep with them?

"Oh?" Riddle mocked. "You do not remember? How..."

 _Ow._ Remember? No, damn it _ow._ Freaking annoying _ow._ His head was pounding and he was breathing harshly and – _fuck,_ was he being given electrical shocks right into his head or something? Something was blocking his thought process, using his brain as a trampoline and playing with his grey matter as if it was a rubber band that they were trying to snap. Not unlike the pain he got when Riddle was mad...

 _...wait, what_? What was he thinking about again? Something to do with mad people... Hermione? Had he done something to upset Hermione? He couldn't remember wha...

* * *

 _He was standing in a dirty phone booth, waiting for the rain to stop and trying to ignore the water penetrating his shoes. The strong wind wouldn't have been that much of an issue, if not for the rain._

 _"_ _You should have left earlier, like I told you to." An annoying voice stated with an irritated sound. "We are going to be behind schedule, as it is."_

 _"_ _Shut up, Riddle." He muttered, sounding depressed as he stared through the booth's panes. He couldn't find a reason to hide his mood. "There was a cop stationed at the corner, I couldn't exactly leave!"_

 _Riddle huffed. "That is why you have an Invisibility Cloak, Potter!"_

 _"_ _Yeah!" He hissed. "Let the muggle law-officer see an abandoned warehouse's door open when it's supposed to be locked! Make him look out for squatters! The people looking for me would realise where I was in a matter of seconds, Riddle!"_

 _"_ _You really expect_ _ **them**_ _to ask the help of_ _ **muggles**_ _?"_

 _"_ _Of course not, that's what mind-reading is for."_

 _"_ _Do not be a muggle, pet, you..."_

 _"_ _DON'T CALL ME THAT!"_

 _"_ _...know very well you cannot_ _ **read**_ _a mind."_

* * *

 _Oooooooooooow._ His head! _OhMerlinplease_ his head! Why couldn't his _finger_ hurt instead!? A strangle whine escaped his throat and something warm flood his mouth, his taste buds overwhelmed by the taste of iron. His knees felt like they were bruising, his hands stung like someone had ruler-slapped him again ( _and he'll get his revenge on that teacher one day, that old fat cow shouldn't have hurt him!_ ) but on his palms instead of the back of his hands.

* * *

 _"_ _I don't want to go back there! Vernon tried to kill me!"_

 _"_ _My boy, just because you do not like it there doesn't mean you can accuse your family of attempting to kill you."_

 _He gritted his teeth, glaring at the ground. These_ _ **muggles**_ _were no family of his, the mere thought made him sick. "I'm not lying! He strangled me! Then kicked me into a wall!"_

 _"_ _Albus, maybe I should check their house, Harry isn't the kind to lie about such things..."_

 _"_ _No need, Arthur. I will bring Mr Potter back to his home myself and I will talk with Petunia about this. She will most likely explain where these claims came from."_

 _Hatred bubbled in his chest while despair danced in his stomach. Dumbledore would do whatever he wanted, no matter what Harry said or did. All Harry could do was hide his true feelings and hope the Dursleys would be brain-washed into being tolerable for the little time he'd spend at their house until his next escape._

 _"_ _You just don't care, do you." His voice was flat, his face showing nothing despite his trembling hands. "Whether they hurt me or not, you don't care. As long as I stay there."_

 _The old man sighed while Mr Weasley spluttered in the background._

 _"_ _Obliviate." Harry flinched at the word, before looking up when nothing happened. His eyes widened at Mr Weasley's glazed eyes and he turned to look at Dumbledore in horror._

 _"_ _Do not worry, I will protect your memories." Riddle's voice whispered in his ear and he answered with a small whimper, which suited the situation just fine since Dumbledore's wand was now pointed at Harry._

 _"_ _I am sorry for this, my boy." The Headmaster said, looking genuinely saddened. Riddle scoffed behind him, probably sneering evilly at the older wizard. "But the situation is greater than you know and some sacrifices are unavoidable. One day, you will understand."_

 _Harry would have wanted to retort something witty, maybe even make the old man hesitate long enough for him to bolt away._

 _But he only had the time to think that, yes, he'd like to know why his sufferings and misery were necessary for Dumbledore's plans. He wasn't sure he'd understand, because obviously Dumbledore had a few screws loose on top of his god complex, but at least he'd know what exactly he could do to sabotage him._

 _And then the world was covered by darkness._

* * *

Harry woke up with a strangled sound, his mouth tasting like blood and his body exhausted as if he had just left one of Wood's pre-game Quidditch training session. He was also cold and kneeling a the hard floor, the knees of his pyjama pants wet and red. He blinked with confusion, noticed his glasses lying in a pool of red liquid in front of him and blinked again as he raised his eyes and realised that he was in 'his' bedroom in Privet Drive.

He was also feeling like someone had ripped his brain out of his head and had replaced it with jelly – before turning on the heat and making it melt. Thinking was difficult, causing little flashes of pain every now and then, but he could still make basic deductions.

The first thing he noted was that something was wrong with him – it wasn't an overly difficult thing to realise, especially since he was kneeling in what could only be blood, but it was a good starting point. Now he only had to find the cause or causes and the other symptoms.

The second thing he noted was Tom Riddle's presence in his room. He stared at the transparent teen in silence, taking in his amused smirk, before he deduced that the other had been there for a while (there was also a feeling of familiarity that accompanied the teen's sight, bringing to mind a few impressions and flashes of memories that didn't quite fit in his mental timeline). It made Riddle a potential 'cause' for his current state, if he wasn't simply an hallucination (which would then land him in the 'symptoms' category). He ignored him in favour of observing the rest of the room, earning him a raised eyebrow, and eventually discovered the pale and shaking form of Petunia Dursley in the door frame.

He spat some of the blood still in his mouth, then offered the muggle woman a bloody smile. He wasn't so off balance as to miss an opportunity to mess with his relatives' minds, and this was one of the best situation he could have hoped for (excluding himself feeling like disoriented shit, obviously).

"Hey, aunt 'tunia." He said, his throat hurting and making his voice come out raspy. The mispronunciation was deliberate, however, to draw the worst reaction he could get. "Waz up?"

Petunia's eyes lingered on the cooling blood, before she let out a strangle cry and dropped loudly on the floor of the corridor – whether it was at the sight of a bloody Harry or because of the dirty floor, he didn't really know. Both were probably just as traumatizing for the woman.

Harry scowled a bit at the position she landed in, her slipper-clad feet and bare calves the only things that remained in his line of sight. Couldn't she have fallen _two feet_ more to the left? Now he would have to step over her if he wanted to leave the room!

"Very amusing." Riddle's wraith commented with a deadpan look. "Now, if you would, stand up and clean yourself." When Harry just stared at him, the ghost sighed. "If you manage to get everything in order before she wakes up, she might think she imagined the whole thing – is that more to your taste?"

Harry grinned and immediately stood up, hiding his pain and his unsteady legs with enthusiastic steps. "You should have said that first."

"I am starting to understand that." The teenage Dark Lord murmured, not sounding the least upset. It meant that Riddle also found some amusement in messing with Harry's relatives (or, more likely, in messing with _anyone_ , Harry would have to remember that) and was somewhat willing to give some assistance in situations like these.

Harry would simply need to be extra careful (on top of the supra-mega-extra careful he already was with the teen – or should be? His thoughts were muddled, why did it felt like he and Riddle had known each others for a while?) when Riddle felt like giving Harry advices. He'd have to, if he didn't want to become his source of entertainment.

He huffed, then grimaced when pain shot through his head. He quickly grabbed rags from under his bed and tried to clean most of the blood, before hiding everything under the loose floorboard in his room. He ran to the bathroom, washing his face and drying himself with his pyjama pants before putting on the clothes he had brought with him. The pants joined the rest of the bloodstained rags, though Harry had to shift his bed a little to hide the bulging floorboard (the hole was too full, he really should find another hiding place).

Just as he finished cleaning up, he heard a loud _thump_ and a huffing sound. His head snapped up in alarm, his eyes turning to the immobile form of Petunia Dursley in the corridor.

He had to hide her. If Vernon saw her, he would think that Harry had done something to her, had maybe even _killed_ her ( _only in his dreams_ ). And while he might have caused her to faint, he had no desire to know what Vernon would do to him in his drunken stupor – because Harry was sure Vernon had not been sober ever since he had been fired from his job.

So he stop thinking, bolting toward Petunia and grabbing her under arms (wrinkling his nose in disgust at having to _touch_ her – he hated touching them, just as much as his aunt and uncle hated touching him (they were afraid of catching his freaky germs, while he didn't want to risk catching their stupidity. Living in close quarters with Gryffindors were damaging enough, thank-you-very-much).

Still, digging his fingers in Petunia's squidgy arms almost made throw up. He felt like he was holding handfuls of worms, or maybe some kind of firm buttery substance. He was _sooo_ washing his hands with disinfectant after this.

Pulling Petunia to her bedroom and pushing her on the bed took way more time than he had expected, but it seemed that his morning was only going to get worse. Or so Vernon's furious purple face told him as he excited the master bedroom, the man having finally finished his ascension of the stairs.

Petunia had hit her head and there was blood on the floor. Blood he now had on his hands and shirt. And he had just left Petunia and Vernon's bedroom, with blood on his body.

"Well fuck." Was all that left his mouth, before he threw himself back in the master bedroom as Vernon's heavy feet thumped loudly as he ran.

He immediately ran toward the bedroom's only window, tearing the window screen off the frame and sliding the glass panel so hard it vibrated. He was pulling himself up, ready to jump, when a meaty hand landed on his nape.

He choke as he was violently thrown back, landing painfully on his left shoulder and rolling awkwardly to get into a safer position on his knees. He only had one second to catch his breath before a foot hit his already bruised shoulder, making him bit his lips not to cry out.

His back hit the floor and his head caught the wall. His ears started ringing and he started to feel like he was floating, but he forced himself to focus as Vernon's blurry form got closer.

Wait. Where were his glasses? Had they fallen out of the window?

"Wha did ya da to her, fweak?" Vernon slurred, his anger and the alcohol somehow not making Vernon as loud as usual. "Did ya _kill_ her? Huh? Afta all we did foo ya? Afta evewything we suffe-ed twough fa ya?"

Harry blinked quickly, ignoring Vernon's insane speech and trying to think of something to get himself out of trouble – which would probably come in the form of a miracle, or would not come at all.

The miracle came. And Harry would be damned, because it came from Tom Marvolo Riddle.

"The carpet, Potter." Riddle's voice hissed near him – considering the ceiling seemed to be spinning somewhere on his left, this was all he could tell. "Pull the carpet."

Harry obeyed without any hesitation. With Seeker-honed reflexes, Harry's hands fisted the carpet on which Vernon was pacing and pulled it to his chest. The human-shaped walrus fell with a strangle cry, a loud _crack_ resounding in the room. Petunia was still unconscious, not even twitching from the ruckus.

Harry stared at Vernon's unmoving form, which was half-lying on the carpet. He stood up carefully, before peering at the muggle on the floor.

The chest was moving up and down, informing Harry that he was still alive. Fury immediately consumed him and the ringing in his head doubled in intensity. Before he knew what he was doing, Harry was bent in two and taking Vernon out of the room by pulling at the carpet. Riddle wasn't talking, just watching with intense crimson eyes as Harry kicked Vernon's form to make him fit in the doorframe.

He had to pause twice, a sharp pain in his head making him falter. He had the feeling that he shouldn't be trying to finish off Vernon, that he should be calling for _help_ so that Vernon could get _better_.

 _You shouldn't be hurting your uncle. Take the pain and keep your mouth shut, don't react._

 _Some sacrifices are unavoidable._

 _Don't do this, Harry. He doesn't deserve to die._

He was sweating when he finally reached the stairs, before awkwardly stepping on the muggle to reach the other side.

"Do you really want to do this, pet?" A serious voice made him stop in his tracks and he turned wide eyes toward Riddle, who was looking at him with serene solemnity. "There is no going back afterward. Killing... changes a person."

"I don't... I can't..." He gasped, only realising how quickly his heart was beating and how fast he was breathing. "I... He... He _must_ die. I can't..."

He licked his lips, looking pleadingly at the wraith who nodded soberly. "I see. Go on, then. Kill him."

Vernon fell down the stairs with sickening sounds and the carpet returned to the master bedroom, not a single speck of blood that wasn't Harry's or Petunia's on it. Wrinkles were smoothed out before Harry jumped down the stairs, avoiding the stair landing where Vernon's cooling body laid.

He had a call to make.


	9. Chapter 8 : Revelation

_Hello,_

 _Here, have a new chapter! I'm not satisfied with it, but it does its job well enough. There will be o_ _ne or two more chapters for the First Summer Arc (I know, very original, right?) and then it's back at Hogwarts. I wonder what I will have them do once there... It should be interesting, wait for it!_

 _Anyway, have fun!_

* * *

Number 4, Privet Drive had become the first house in Privet Drive's history to ever have both policemen and paramedics under its roof because of a murder, which was both surprising yet fitting when one considered the gossiping network in town. Yes, everyone's 'secrets' were out in the 'open' thanks to gossiping housewives, but it also meant that everyone would immediately know who murdered who so it wasn't worth to try and kill your unfaithful wife.

Or so Harry had deduced as he had watched people invade the Dursley home – he would certainly have had to deal with rumours of being a murderer if he had been planning on staying there.

Things had gotten a bit complicated when the paramedics had wanted to go fetch Petunia, what with Vernon's corpse blocking the only way up and them not wanting to disturb the 'crime scene'. The priority had been the living muggle though, so two paramedics had climbed over the dead body, one rushing to Petunia's side while another came and went with medical equipment, helped by another paramedic who would hold out bags to him.

Harry, on the other hand, had been forced to sit in the living room with the fourth paramedic until he had been replaced by two police officers – it had been some sort of consensus not to leave him alone, and he could very well understand that they suspected him of having attacked his relatives (especially with his bloody clothes). Their suspicions had diminished a little when they had seen Vernon's size, of course, because 'how a skinny lad like him could have taken on a man like that', or so Riddle had relayed from his spying on the detective inspector.

He still was the only witness, and thus in the best position to have killed Vernon. Which he had, but nobody needed to know that. He didn't fancied himself in jail.

Petunia had left first, fifteen minutes after the ambulances had arrived, her long neck stuck in a neck brace (why? He didn't remembered her hurting her neck) and her body covered in thick blankets and strapped tightly to the stretcher. Her blond hair was bloody and just as messy as Harry's (if he could tell that it was a mess without his glasses, then it was a Mess among messes), which would probably have caused the woman a heart attack had she been awake (it was so unfortunate that she wasn't). The paramedics had had to dance around Vernon's body again to get Petunia's stretcher downstairs, but once it was done they had wasted no time and had effectively rushed outside – where noisy neighbours had gathered around the yellow tape surrounding the property, unbothered by the strong wind attacking them.

Vernon left one hour after that, covered by a thick white cloth (because his obese corpse didn't fit in the body bags the ambulance had on hand), after hundred of pictures of him were taken in every angles possible. Policemen had quickly gone upstairs and Harry had felt his blood run cold when one of them came back with dark red and grey fabric in his hands – very obviously the bloody clothes he had hidden under the loose board in his room. Clothes he had forgotten about.

He must've paled, because he immediately felt the weight of five suspicious glares on himself. He spared a thought for being thankful that most of his magical things were spelled to be ignored by muggles, convincing them that they were nothing interesting, then licked his lips nervously. His headache had diminished a lot (mostly thanks to people leaving him alone, if still watched carefully), but there was still this annoying tingle in the back of his head, one that told him that he was far from alright.

"Please explain this, Mr Potter." The detective demanded. They had gotten his statement quickly enough, but he had mostly left it at 'Uncle Vernon heard Aunt Petunia cry out and faint and he tripped in the stairs in the rush'. The nearly empty bottle of cognac in the kitchen and the smell coming from Vernon had only added credibility to his story, and he had hoped to leave it at that, his brain, at the time, not quite capable of thinking clearly. It had gotten him some sympathy at first, but it was obviously over now.

"I..." He heard Riddle laugh mockingly next to him and Harry huffed in irritation, his eyes widening a little when the bruises on his back protested against his action – he had yet to move from the seat he had sat on after the paramedics arrived and was only now realising the results of Vernon's drunken fit. Riddle laughed again and Harry lowered his eyes to his knees, lest he be thought a delusional killer by the people around him. Explaining that he was glaring at an otherwise invisible teenager would certainly not be to his advantage. "I woke up feeling sick this morning. I only got out of bed before I started throwing up. Aunt Petunia opened my door, probably wondering about the noises, and I heard her scream. I heard her fall, but... I only realised that I was kneeling in blood when I tried to get up. I changed not to get blood on her, then brought her to her room so she wouldn't be lying on the floor when she'd wake up."

"And why were the... clothes hidden?" The detective insisted when Harry stayed silent for a moment. Harry looked up, then caught the looks being exchanged above his head.

He immediately caught on what was happening and only barely resisted glaring at Riddle. The git had manipulated him into acting like the victim! _He_ was the killer, the stronger one, the one left standing, not _VERNON!_

He licked his lips again, nervous – if not for the reasons the muggles thought of – and quickly thought of a fitting scenario. He promised himself to think of some kind of revenge against Riddle later, but that this, right now, was more important right now. Avoiding jail was _certainly_ more important, even if he'd probably disappear through some magical means, either by himself or by the Magical World's own law enforcement.

"I... I didn't want Uncle Vernon to see them." He said in a soft voice, not really faking the twitch in his hands at the memory of Vernon seeing him blood-soaked with Petunia nowhere in sight. His fists clenched on his lap and a painful spark travelled from his shoulder to his spine, causing him to quickly unclenched his left hand.

 _He's_ _ **dead**_ , he told himself. _You killed him. He's gone. He's never coming back again. You_ _ **killed**_ _him, you made sure you'd never have to deal with him_ _ **ever again**_ _. So relax. You convinced_ _ **Dumbledore**_ _that you were a good little Gryffindor with high moral standards, you can convinced simple_ _ **muggles**_ _that you have no direct responsibility in the human walrus' death._

"Why is that?" The detective's voice was perfectly emotionless, but Harry could feel that he was already thinking about a reason as to why Harry would hide his bloody clothes.

It made him want to lash out, made him want to run away and not look back, but he couldn't really do that, could he now? There were priorities in his life and he had learnt the hard way that pride wasn't supposed to be one of them. Taking reparation (revenge) from someone because of a slight against his person was much better done in private, even if his reputation didn't beneficiated from it. It was better than getting in trouble for pouring finger paint and liquid glue in Dudley's schoolbag, or for adding the wrong spices in the Dursleys' dinner (though that last one had gotten Harry off cooking duty whenever they were guests, and Piers' parents never stayed long enough to eat at Number 4 ever since, so it was still a small win in his book).

"He would have been upset." Harry replied after a short pause. He opened his mouth to speak more, but a growing uneasiness kept him from making a sound. He felt vulnerable and naked and he _hated it_. He still forced the words out. Because he had a scene to play, people to fool and Riddle to take revenge on later. "Uncle Vernon lost his job recently. He's... No, he _was_. He was easily upset."

 _That's right, he_ _ **was**_ _. He's dead. I killed him. He's_ _ **dead**_ _and I_ _ **killed**_ _him! He's dead and gone,_ _ **gone**_ _. Forever gone._

"And you dare tell me that you were not abused." Riddle hissed in his ears, making him shudder. The teenage Dark Lord's words were full of furious contempt, dripping in his mind like thick molasses. "Just look at yourself, trembling at the thought of a man you just killed as if he was hiding in a corner, ready to jump on you and hurt you again. It makes your act _weak_ , your emotions make you into a feeble brained buffoon and you just _react_ to things and hope for the best instead of carefully planning them! _You_ decided to kill that thing, _you_ will get yourself out of this. I _will not_ spend the next ten years in Azkaban because you got caught for killing a worthless _muggle_."

Harry bit his lips to contain the insulted anger bubbling in his chest, knowing that he was only proving Riddle right by not exploding in screeching sobs. But he also knew that Riddle had told him this _right now_ because he wanted the reaction Harry was having, not to provoke waterworks.

But Riddle was right, as loathed as he was to admit it. He'd have to make some time to right his emotions in a working system and create a few contingency plans that would support his version of facts. Just _later_ , when he had free time and no one was out for his head.

...make that 'when he had free time and was far enough from Headmaster Dumbledore'. He'd never get things done otherwise.

"...er. Mr Potter. Please answer, Mr Potter."

His eyes snapped up, then slid shut as his head suddenly felt like it was filled with hot lead. Aaaaah... He'd forgotten to be careful with his head. Stupid, stupid Potter.

Wait, what were they talking about?

"...ther ambulance and get someone to check him. Parker, I want this whole house _gutted_ – soak everything in luminol if you have to. Donovan, you stay with the kid until the ambulance arrives. I'm calling social services. Everyone got it?"

Harry stared confusedly at the muggle giving orders, who seemed to grow more and more annoyed despite the police team grunting their agreement. The muggle named Donovan gave Harry a heavy look, before sighing and kneeling in front of him.

Harry blinked at the action.

"Do you feel capable of telling me what _really_ happened after you put your aunt on her bed?" The man asked gently.

Harry frowned – he wasn't a baby to cuddle! – but murmured a small 'yes'. The quicker this was done, the better he'd be feeling.

"I cleaned my room." Harry said, speaking in a soft tone more for his own comfort than for the act – but it was helping either way, which was... good, he supposed. "I heard Uncle Vernon walk up the stairs, so I hurried – I didn't want him to see. I was done, walked out to go the bathroom, but I... He was standing there, right next to me, looking at me like he was going to murder me."

He licked his lips, raising the hand opposite to the one connected to his painful shoulder to hold across his torso, fisting the cloth of his other sleeve. The police officer waited in silence, his pen finishing whatever it was writing.

"I ran to Aunt Petunia's bedroom. There's a lock on the inside of the door there, but I didn't had the time. So I ran toward the window."

Harry hesitated. What now? Did he explained how he had been thrown on the floor before Vernon had his mad speech? A bitter laugh made his chest hurt and he started coughing rather painfully, before getting himself back into control. Or, well, into a semblance of control.

"He caught me." His voice was slightly strangled, but he paid it no mind. It was the first time since elementary school that he spoke of anything like this to anyone, but at least the policeman seemed open at the idea that he _might_ be telling the truth. Teachers at Surrey's elementary school were parts of the town's gossip network and had heard of his 'difficult, lying and cheating' personality years before he was of age to join the school. Though he didn't need to lie right now – just not specify the exact order in which things happened. "I tried to run. He followed me. I jumped down the stairs and he... fell."

The sounds of Vernon's landing filled his ears once again and he shuddered. But then he relaxed, remembering the limp body lying on the stairs with the neck at an unnatural angle. He spared a moment wondering how the paramedics had been able to lift Vernon to put him on his stretcher, but decided that it wasn't very important. What _was_ important was that he was _free_ of Vernon. And with his father dead, Dudley would more likely be meeker. Petunia had never been one to hurt him either, she just ordered him around.

And Vernon was _dead_.

He had to contain the look of utter relief that tried to overcome his face, though he might not have been completely successful if one considered the closed off expression on the muggle's face.

"Very well." The policeman sighed when it became clear that Harry wouldn't say anything else. "We will need to take pictures of your wounds."

Harry paled a little at that, not having expected it – he had not even _mentioned_ that Vernon had hurt him! And now... He would have to show his skin.

The problem was, he had always healed rather quickly. He didn't know if it had to do with being a wizard, because nobody had never spoken to him about that, or if it had more to do about how he had survived the Killing Curse – or if it was something else entirely. Still, in one or two days, there wouldn't be any more bruises, swellings or cuts and, in one week, his bones would be mended if still tender for another three days. Having pictures of black bruises but nothing left of them in a few days would _not_ be in his favour.

His troubled thoughts were interrupted when the front door opened loudly, causing a policeman standing in the hallway to snap that nobody was allowed in the house. He grew quiet immediately after, which caused Harry to look at the living room's door in worry.

Mr Donovan had also turned toward the door, but was unable to speak as a spell had been casted at him as soon as the wizard entered the room. Harry didn't recognized him, but an heavy feeling was suddenly weighting on his chest.

The policeman was now staring at the wall and looked completely unresponsive. The newcomer gave the muggle an approving nod – or was he just satisfied at his own spell's result? – before turning his eyes on Harry, a bright smile quickly spreading on his lips.

"Harry Potter!" The wizard, a pale-skinned, brown-haired man, was rather short and wore light clothes – that was all Harry could see at the moment. "What an honour! I've been wanting to meet you for years! I've always meant to thank you for what you did for us, for destroying He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named! Would you sign me an autograph?"

Lockhart flashed into Harry's mind, making him wince. The reaction was not lost on the wizard, who made a pitiful sound.

"How rude of me!" He exclaimed – _whined_ , Harry corrected with mild annoyance. "Your uncle just died, and here I am, talking about your parents' death! I apologize for my lack of tact!"

"You would do better keeping your mouth shut." Riddle hissed, mouth twitching. Harry's forehead... _itched_ a bit, for a lack of a better word, and his mind immediately flashed to another, more painful time he had seen Riddle angry – demented, even.

The memory seemed like it was deep under ice cold waters inside his mind and pulling it out felt like trying to sink a tooth in one of Hagrid's rock-cakes. He got the impressions well enough, buts sounds and images were murky at best.

Noticing the awkward silence in the room and realising that he had lost contact with the outside world, Harry quickly shoved the foggy memory aside to think about later.

"I'm sorry, I got lost in thoughts." He apologized shyly. The other wizard smiled widely, showing pearl-white teeth, and nodded enthusiastically at his words.

"Understandable, Mr Potter!" The wizard chirped, causing his forehead to start actually _stinging_. Like, multiple-bee-stings stinging. It made him wonder if he could somehow muffle the emotions he got from Riddle, or at least get rid of the pain-alarm. There was too many morons in the world for Harry to spend at least one day without suffering from this connection. "As I was saying, my name is Flavus Idlewind, I am First Scout of the Auror Department, Muggle Section. My job is to investigate legal activity involving witches and wizards living in the muggle world – the Ministry wards around your home detected someone's death inside the house and sent me to look into what happened."

Harry stared – and he wasn't the only one. If Riddle could use magic (and he didn't know why he was sure Riddle _couldn't_ – of maybe more like wouldn't? It was so confusing...), the older teen would have flayed the older wizard alive, then fried his raw flesh before throwing his barely surviving self to Conjured hungry piranhas. And that was probably the nicest scenario running through the teenage Dark Lord's mind.

"My uncle died hours ago." Harry deadpanned. He certainly would have appreciated not having to tell his sob-story to the muggles. Especially since magicals wouldn't have thought about looking into Harry's room, too stuck in their awe of him to _suspect_ him or anything of the likes.

The wizard laughed self-depreciatively. "Ha! That! I got lost! I Apparated in Bristol instead of Surrey! I had to take the Knight Bus to get here, in the end, then there was a commotion and..."

Harry fought to keep his expression as a mask of polite interest. It was rather difficult, what with his hurting body, Riddle's anger slowly tearing into his head and the simmering mess of feelings he had gone through in the last few days (all of which he didn't remembered correctly or fully, causing him even more unrest) on top of the growing disrespect for the First Scout or whatever.

What if it had been _Harry_ who had died?! And if it was his _job_ to check on magical people like Harry, then why the fuck wasn't there someone who investigated when Vernon broke Harry's freaking arm five years ago?! Why had no one taken him away from this place yet?!

 _Never mind that_ , Harry told himself with a deep breath. _He's here now. Let's just hope he knows what to do._

"What's happening now?" Harry asked when the excuses for the First Scout's delay were all told, honestly curious. He hoped the man would be able to deal with the police himself, because he had great suspicions that the additional ambulance he had heard about earlier was for him. And he had no desires to enter an hospital, where his quick healing would be noticed almost immediately.

He knew what happened to freaks in the muggle world. It was either a lab or the circus, and freaks shows caused too much protest from 'peace-loving hippie protesters to be much of a thing these days (he knew that because Vernon had told him when he was younger that he would go to one if he misbehaved, later muttering under his breath against said hippies when he thought that Harry wasn't listening).

"Ah, yes." The Ministry employee sounded like he had completely forgotten why he had been sent to Privet Drive in the first place, making Harry want to hurt him. Riddle probably wanted to torture the wizard to death at this point, because Harry's head was burning like that one time Petunia had dropped (accidentally or not, he had not been paying attention) her hot iron on his foot. "Well, seeing as someone did die, I will have to send a note to my department to send a team of Obliviators, an Investigator and a Scribe to deal with this. In the mean time, I'll gather the identities of those who came here for my report, then I will leave."

So that meant that he wouldn't have to deal with people inquiring about his quick healing. Great.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, the Dursley home became the first building in Privet Drive to be invaded by wizards, which would have caused all of the neighbourhood's residents to faint in outrage had they known. The Obliviators modified all of the policemen and neighbours' memories, before running after the four paramedics who had dealt with Petunia and Vernon's body to finish their job. The Scribe wrote what had happened (or what Harry said had happened, with a few notes from the police's own investigation) for the Ministry's archives, following the Investigator like an eager puppy but never saying anything. Said Investigator concluded his visit by telling him he would probably receive an invitation to the Ministry, because apparently muggles hurting a wizarding child was a terrible crime and they would need to investigate further. Especially when Harry had explained that it wasn't the first time.

(He was crossing his fingers for something to happen – anything to get him away from Privet Drive.)

And then they left, leaving the house to Harry as the muggle policemen mocked-concluded their investigation. A glazed-eyed detective informed him that he was to stay in town for a while, calling him Arnold Bother (Riddle had _frowned_ at the over-powered _Confundus_ ' victim, an annoyed gleam in his eyes that told Harry that the pain in his brain was very much coming from the teenage Dark Lord) and nearly walking into the walls. It had made Harry wonder if he would cause accidents on his way back, but it wasn't like he actually cared so it didn't occupied his mind for long.

No, he actually had more urgent things to ponder about.

Taking a deep breath (and ignoring how his body protested against it), Harry finally turned toward Riddle.

"So..." He licked his lips, oddly feeling like he was about to sell his soul. Or, considering the situation, like he had just noticed that he had already sold his soul. "I remember a bit about what _really_ happened, and I... it's thanks to you, I suppose. What..." Riddle knew what he was about to say, a sadistically _charming_ smile on his face. "What do I owe you?"

Riddle hummed, looking gleeful enough that Harry's stomach flip-flopped in anxiety. "We'll see." Then he walked away, leaving a horror-stricken teen behind him.

Harry didn't let the moans escape his throat, but he very much knew what kind of troubles he was in. A big favour, with no restrictions and to be called on whenever it caught Riddle's fancy?

He wasn't in troubles, he was in deep, hot, sticky shit (and, Merlin, he almost wished that it wasn't just a metaphor instead of the pitiful reality).


	10. Chapter 9 : Escape

_Hello,_

 _Only one more chapter after this one before we're back to Hogwarts._

 _Disclaimer (for all that I forget it more often than not) : I do not own Harry Potter._

* * *

One could have thought that Petunia's stay at the hospital and her husband's death would have cleared Harry's summer concerning potential annoyance. One might also have believed that he would have healed in peace, recovering his memories as he slept and only dealing with Riddle when awake (hopefully). It would finally have been logical to conclude that Harry had suddenly gained the opportunity to do some of the things he had been putting off of doing (his homework, a deeper introspection of his true desires and ambitions, his _homework_ , planning for the coming year's expected troubles, _his home…_ yeah, those), but, well… It would also have been ridiculous to call anything that concerned Harry remotely _logical_.

So, no, Harry's summer did not get better after Vernon's murder. If you asked him, it just uncovered a whole new lot of shit.

Because _Marge_ would be staying at Number 4 until the funeral (at the very least), which was _two weeks later_. The bitch – if anyone would even call her that without insulting every dog and unpleasant women out there – had arrived the day before the wake, which Harry had not even thought of attending, and had promptly ordered Harry to start cooking _or else_.

Harry had taken his trunk and Hedwig's cage (the owl herself nowhere to be seen) and had left the house in silence while the bitch and the pig parading as humans were busy comforting each others in the living room. Riddle had advised him against leaving so soon after Vernon's murder, but Harry didn't felt like bowing to Vernon's sister and doing anything to her would taint his apparent innocence in the ongoing investigations. He also couldn't disappear without making people suspicious, so he decided _not_ to hide for once and left to take refuge at the Leaky Cauldron until he was forced to go back. He had been planning on leaving anyway, just not that early and not for a place as obvious as the pub hiding the door to Diagon Alley.

Hopefully he would not return until Marge was long gone. She usually never stayed longer than a week, but, knowing the woman ( _and he apologized to every human females out there, minus Petunia and Dudley's paternal grandmother, for his use of that word concerning Marge_ ) she would most likely abuse Petunia's hospitality until she felt that Petunia was 'fit' to raise Dudley 'properly' after the 'tragedy' – what with Petunia not being a Dursley by blood and thus being 'weaker' (Harry had heard it for years, Marge complaining to Vernon about how he had chosen a 'waif-like wife, how can you expect her to give you strong children?').

So maybe three weeks, or, if he was particularly unlucky, more than a month – which would mean that Marge took short visits to her own house every other week or so. He'd have to check on his hideouts before 'returning home', in case the unwanted guest was still there.

And then he had the Ministry's summon to expect. Which… he wasn't sure _what_ it had to do with him or how he would need to act. Maybe he was just a witness or something? Riddle didn't seem to know either, which weighted heavily on the wraith's mind.

Speaking of the Slytherin heir, Harry sometimes wondered why he had not been Sorted into Ravenclaw – not knowing something was certainly a great frustration for the older teen, giving a whole new meaning to the word 'obsession'. Harry could hardly get him to think about something else for more than a few seconds at a time. Even when Harry was sleeping, he would _dream about the damned summon!_ This tidbit of information about their connection had gotten Riddle excited for nearly a whole minute before his thoughts, like a magnet, turned back to his current fixation.

It was tiring. Harry had troubles doing his ( _damned, boring, long, annoying_ ) homework in peace, even if Florean Florescue was often more than happy to help him with his history essay. He also had to make sure his potion homework was as close to perfection as possible, or else he could say goodbye to the 'Acceptable' that meant 'Outstanding' in Snape-language when it came down to Harry's grade. One tiny mistake and the sour Potion Master would give him a Troll, even when they both knew that Harry was good at making potions – just not where it was _encouraged_ to throw things in his cauldron, forcing him to limit the damages to the potion so that it would not explode, which either ruined or damaged the end result.

And going to McGonagall about his treatment in the Potion classroom had earned him a pitying look and the 'advice' to try and not raise to the professor's provocations, and also not to talk back or be disrespectful. Telling him in other words to be a pushover and let himself be humiliated every single week, as if he _deserved it_. Harry totally didn't see what Hermione saw in the Deputy Headmistress, since the woman _didn't care_ about her charges, but then, again, Hermione had the utmost respect for authority figures – even Snape, though the wizard was probably the only teacher she'd ever set on fire.

* * *

Two and a half weeks after he had arrived at the Leaky Cauldron, Sirius Black escaped Azkaban and Harry didn't felt like doing his homework anymore.

The evening the information was leaked, Harry had been eating dinner at the Leaky Cauldron – owls had invaded the pub with an _Evening Prophet_ tied to their claws, a bird stopping in front of every single witch, hag or wizard around. A cry upstairs had also informed them that an owl had even reached the room attendant – and then Harry had seen the word 'Azkaban' on the front page, making his stomach tighten in anxiety.

He paid the owl and took the newspaper. After he started to read, he realised that the usually noisy room had gone quiet and that several eyes were watching his back.

And he understood, really. His story was being plastered just under the scandalous news, details about how _his father's best friend_ had betrayed his parents and had killed Peter Pettigrew, former coward and laughing stock of his group of 'friends'. He was feeling numb as he continued to read the article, Riddle hovering over his shoulder – probably wondering what had gotten him upset.

"No peaceful schooling for you this year either." Riddle murmured, making him flinch. "Oh, well, I'll teach you a few things later. Is there anything about Auror investigations or Ministry summons on the other pages?"

For some reason, he relaxed at that. The normalcy of Riddle's obsession had killed in the bud what would probably have been a Dudley-worthy tantrum and Harry simply turned the page to look for Riddle's inquiries.

The pub exploded in whispers as he did so, but he still wasn't feeling up to doing homework so he didn't left for his room. He just turned another page, adopting a look of pure disappointment when he read _Wizard Caught Attacking Muggle Theatre_ above an article that explains how a _halfblood_ man had tried to 'free' the people 'stuck' in a screen at some cinema in London – Riddle probably had the same expression on his face, considering the mild stinging sensation on his forehead.

And he was starting to think that the other teen was doing it on purpose, because his (still) returning memories had informed him that nothing of the likes had happened before Riddle's little mad fit. There was also the possibility of their connection's 'cap' having been blown away or Harry having merely grown more sensible to the other's emotions in an attempt at self-preservation, but he was growing more and more certain that the teenage Dark Lord took a perverse pleasure into invading his mind.

"They have animated portraits." Harry heard Riddle mutter in his hand. "Moving pictures. The _radio_. Charmed tapest…."

Harry stopped listening and returned his attention to the newspaper. There was nothing interesting beside a few humorous stories, but they all paled in front of the front-page news. Finally, Harry slapped the newspaper on the counter and stood up, not minding that the paper was quickly stolen by a short wizard who probably didn't have a subscription – the eager look on his face was rather telling.

"Good night, Mr Tom." Harry said to the old bartender, who sent a toothless grin at him above his newspaper, before walking smoothly to his room.

The was no chance of him sleeping that night – the possibility of Sirius Black getting into the pub would keep him awake no matter what –, but there were many things he could stay busy with until morning. Working on his connection to Voldemort would have to wait until after he was summoned to the Ministry, because Riddle would not cooperate until then, but getting his own chaotic emotions and thoughts in order would most likely diminish the impact the other's anger and annoyance on his psyche.

Harry grimaced. Spending the whole night looking into his fucked-up mind and thinking about solutions was _not_ what he found particularly enjoyable. There was a reason he had not done this before, and it was because he was a little scared of what he would find.

* * *

 _He was five years old. Dressed with thin and patched-up clothes that had turned too small for Dudley two years before, he was attempting to clean the backyard – 'attempting', because the rain pouring down on his frail form turned the ground into a pool of mud. Dudley's toys, that he had been instructed to put back into the plastic toy box, were dirty if not broken and he was dropping just as much if not more mud into the box than toys._

 _His fingers were numb with the cold and his bony body was shaking violently. He still continued to clean the yard, because he was hungry – soooo hungry – and the Dursleys had told him that he wouldn't get any food if he didn't get every single toys into the box._

 _He ended up collapsing on the ground, shivering like mad and curled up in a tight little ball. He stayed like that until a sharp hand grabbed his shirt and pulled him toward the house, ignoring the fact that he was getting covered in mud. Or maybe Petunia had done it on purpose, so that she would be justified in forcing him to undress outside to 'wash' him with the ice-cold water from the hose. A ratty towel was thrown in his face with the order for him to dry himself._

 _He was sent to his cupboard naked and with an empty stomach. When he came out, the next morning, Dudley was enjoying the early rays of sun and was throwing his painstakingly gathered toys into every corner of the backyard. When he saw Harry, he gave him a nasty smirk and his father, seeing this, congratulate the little pig for 'making sure the freak didn't slack off on work'._

 _When Dudley ran back inside when it started raining, Harry was thrown back outside to gather the toys while Petunia cleaned the dirt Dudley had brought inside. The same thing happened for weeks, until Dudley got bored of it and decided that sabotaging Harry's chores was a lot funnier. And while he was hardly being discreet, his parents turned a blind eye and punished Harry for it._

 _Harry never knew how Dudley got locked into the shed after Harry had been told to tend to the gardens, but the strong slap from Vernon he received after the incident informed him that it had somehow been his fault. Only after he learnt of the Wizarding World did he realise that his magic must have made the door fuse to its frame in retaliation._

 _Still, Dudley never attempted to mess up with Harry's chores ever again. It almost made the slap and subsequent starvation worth it – almost. But, as usual, Dudley found something else to…_

… _few days before he turned nine and Petunia had brought Dudley and his friends to the local pool. Mrs Figg being away, his aunt had been forced to bring Harry, though he had been ordered not to take off his shirt (the bruises from Dudley's latest Harry Hunt that morning had yet to completely disappear, and Petunia had not wanted anyone to see them) and to stay away from the water._

 _Said orders were forgotten when Petunia noticed her son pulling a still pain-dizzy Harry toward the pool. She buried her nose in her book and promptly 'ignored' what was about to happen._

 _Harry remembered a gut-wrenching fear and the sound his heart made in his ears while his head was forced underwater. He fought against Dudley's gang, but they were stronger than his scrawny self and he had no chance. His head was pulled up a few times so that he could take in deep and desperate breaths, their ugly laughter and the distant chatter of the other visitors barely audible behind his harsh breathing and his pounding heart._

 _And then his head would be back in the chlorine-filled water, panic flooding his veins and his limbs jerking vigorously. He eventually tired from such treatment, his struggles growing weaker slowly but surely, until he went still and darkness claimed his consciousness as his lungs_ _ **burned**_ _._

 _He woke up to a strong arm carrying him out of the water, Petunia's shrilled voice making his ears ring. He half-heard the lifeguard lecturing his aunt about her not keeping a watch on him and how the woman had tried to defend herself by saying that Harry had told her that he was going to the bathroom, having been forbidden from joining his cousin in the pool because of bad behaviour._

 _Petunia had gathered the children and they had left the pool. If Harry had thought that he would get a break after such a tiring outing, he would have been wrong – luckily, he had known his aunt well enough by then not to expect a respite._

 _He was thrown in the kitchen and ordered to prepare snacks for the other boys 'since_ _ **he**_ _had ruined their day out'._

 _He spat in the cucumber sandwiches and mixed dirt and toilet water in the cupcakes' batter. He didn't grin vindictively when he saw them eat his snacks, but his eyes must have gleamed maliciously because Petunia kept throwing him wary looks, before telling him to go to his 'room' (how she called his cupboard when in company) for the rest of the day._

 _He dreamed of drowning for weeks. Strangely, he didn't become afraid of water – just less appreciative, and less willing to…_

 _…_ _his tenth birthday that day. Because of some sort of twist of Fate, it was also the day where the Dursleys were leaving for Marge's house to visit for a week and he was dumped into Mrs Figg's care. He had kept his face void of feelings as he had walked to her door (because there was no way the Dursleys would waste time taking him there), but it didn't make his feeling of apprehension disappear._

 _He hated being at the old lady's house._

 _When he was four (the earliest he remembered), she had locked him outside during the night. He suspected that she had simply forgotten about him, because she had acted all surprised when she had seen him on her doorstep the next morning, asking if 'it was time already'. And he had spent the whole previous day with her, too._

 _When he was seven, she had tried to feed him dog food she had bought by mistake a while ago, saying that it was a 'family recipe' to make him eat it (it didn't work). He had spent days starving, throwing the food in her cats' bowls and, admittedly, making a few fall sick. He didn't cared enough to tell her worrying form about it though._

 _And now that he was ten, he was wondering how the crazy lady would be trying to ruin his stay at her house. If he could get away with it, he'd leave for his few safe houses around the town, but those cats of hers always followed him and_ _ **she**_ _would then find him, her bloody cats at her feet. He had lost two secure spots because of her, and he wasn't going to loose another._

 _As usual, his arrival was greeted with an enthusiastic 'Harry!' and a knobbly hand on his shoulder, tight enough to bruise. She pulled him to her living room where the usual albums were waiting and she pushed him into her sagging couch, sitting so close to him that he immediately attempted to put some space between them._

 _He didn't listen to the retelling of the albums' stories. It had been somewhat distracting the first time, boring the few following ones, but now it was only annoying._

 _Story Time took most of the rest of the day, Mrs Figg not even stopping for lunch or tea. Not that she liked tea – she was more of an alcohol-person, like Vernon. Even the smell of cat piss and boiled cabbage couldn't completely hide the smell of gin oozing from about everything in the house. As if she had spilled some of the liquid everywhere at least once and not bothered to clean it up, but Harry knew better – she_ _ **never**_ _bothered to clean, as could testify the inch-thick amount of dirt and hairs on the floor, walls and furniture and the complete mess surrounding them. The only thing Harry figured she cleaned were her clothes and he had yet to see her wear anything but nightwear, even to go shopping._

 _When the sun finally disappeared behind the horizon, Mrs Figg finally closed her album and said that they'd continue the next day – as if Harry wouldn't have escaped by then, like usual. She had nothing ready to eat and she was a rather horrible cook, so she pulled an old chocolate cake from her pantry and cut it in two, offering the smallest piece to Harry._

 _It was on the second mouthful that Harry noticed that it wasn't only old age making the cake taste weird. He had just noticed one of the cats leaving the pantry, something he was very sure was excrement stuck to its rear paws. Bile flowing on his tongue, he slipped off his chair and opened the pantry, Mrs Figg's voice telling him off for doing so. It was rude, she tried to explain – but Harry was already gone, running for the bathroom where the little cake he had eaten, as well as his breakfast (three slices of dry bread with mould spots that he had carefully removed before consumption), resurfaced._

 _Mrs Figg's cats used the mostly-empty pantry as a litter box. Only, the smell was so omnipresent already that you couldn't really tell where it originated from. 'Don't shit where you eat', he remembered hearing once – well, there certainly wasn't enough food in the little food cupboard for the cats to figure that out and the crazy cat lady didn't seem to mind eating cat shit._

 _Harry did. He very much minded. Which is why he spent his 'vacation' away, finding his food elsewhere and only coming back to sleep. He would be gone by morning, his very being unable to deal with the unstable old woman he had been left with._

 _When the Dursleys came back, they found a smelly, starved and wide-eyed Harry Potter on their doorstep. When they demanded – yelled at him for – an explanation, he told them that Mrs Figg had tried to feed him cat shit by making it pass as chocolate. And for all that the little family delighted in Harry's misery, they worried about the obvious insanity the woman displayed and how it could affect their reputation if she stayed their first choice of a babysitter._

 _Harry was never sent back to Mrs Figg's house, though he was certainly threatened to be. Petunia said that she had alerted the authorities about the woman's mental state, but that nothing was being done. She had had a fearful expression when she said that, unaware that Harry was watching after he had been done with the dishes._

 _Only now did he realised what that look had meant. Petunia had learnt from the incident that they were being watched by magicals, and that it had probably only been because of Mrs Figg's instability that they had not reaped the consequences of Harry's mistreatment. It was probably the reason he never went back there._

 _He felt his head sting, then realised that the sensation wasn't from his memories. As if he was being pulled to the surface of a lake, Harry felt something cold wash over his being as he_ opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of his room at the Leaky Cauldron.

He blinked a few times, before turning toward Riddle, who was standing innocently next to the room's window and looking outside with a blank face. Considering the pale light coming in from the window, it was barely morning yet.

"Why did you wake me." It didn't came out as a question, Harry not really expecting the other to answer – not with the face he was making. As expected, Riddle didn't even bothered to turn and look at him.

It annoyed him, at least a tiny bit. While he had hardly been sleeping (and thus did not suffered from the morning haze of sleepiness, for all that his body had been resting), it did not meant that he was open to being bothered whenever Riddle was bored. He had his obsession to tend to, couldn't he leave Harry alone while he put some order into his mind?

"If I'm on a broom flying fifty feet above the ground, will you trail behind me like a kite or be able to stay on the broom?" Harry blurted out, surprising himself at the words before the image fully formed in his head and he snickered.

Eyes cold and the sting in his forehead flaring warningly, Riddle turned toward him. At least he had his attention now.

"I would not know." The wraith replied carefully. "Why that ques…"

Harry's happily mocking smile made Riddle understand : Harry was the Gryffindor Quidditch team's _Seeker_. Horror flashed on that perfectly sculpted face and he snarled with a wild look in his red eyes.

"You will quit as soon as you get back at Hogwarts!" The teenage Dark Lord hissed venomously. "Better yet, sent the school a letter _now_! I will not suffer through such humiliation, Potter!"

"But what do I get out of _that_ , Riddle?" Harry asked in a saccharine tone, feeling giddy as he pushed the covers off his legs.

"I will torture you." The dark promise in that voice made Harry shiver lightly, but he was assured of his win in this occasion. Riddle had limited options and he had too much self-preservation to torture Harry when it could be noticed. The two of them had pretty much deduced that Riddle's continued existence depended on Harry's survival, after all.

"You know how the school takes Quidditch seriously. I would be _lynched_ if I was to stop playing Seeker. Even _you_ cannot be annoying enough to top my House's nagging and the Slytherin's mockeries. And what about the teachers? How do I explain to McGonagall that I will not be on the team anymore? Everybody knows that I love Quidditch, nothing short of blackmail would make me pull out, or so the rumours say. Unless you are willing to call in your favour," Harry smiled here, fake innocence radiating out of him at the idea, "then we will have _lots_ of fun. The practices are fours hours a week, you know? Sometimes _six_ when the match comes closer. Then there are the games, which can last until _weeeeeell_ into the night. I'm usually a good Seeker, but _sometimes_ the Snitch stays hidden until the evening, and there's _nothing_ we can do…"

Riddle seemed to have turned mute in his frustration, glaring at him as if he would spontaneously combust if he put enough strength behind it. As it was, he decided to lay back in bed to wait until Riddle's anger (and the pain in his head) receded before going for breakfast.

Riddle did not called in his favour, which Harry had expected – why waste such a thing to sooth one's pride when there were so many more important occasions to wait for? It didn't kept Harry from tempting Riddle about it, though, and he was already planning a few stunts that would make the wraith feel like a kite in a storm.

He would have fun – that would show Riddle how much of a _pet_ Harry truly was. Hagrid was the one who liked to pretend he tamed wild creatures and Harry would love giving Riddle an insight about such a formidable activity that was beast-taming.

Not that Harry was a beast, or that he would eventually be tamed, or that Riddle would succeed at making a pet out of Harry. He was simply saying that he'd show the other the horrors of dealing with a wild, _free_ spirit of a _person_ getting even with the daily torture he was putting up with because of their connection.

The morning continued in silence, Riddle busy with his obsession and Harry forcing his quill to move to write his Herbology essay even though he didn't know what to write after the seventh sentence – how many ways were there to describe asphodel, anyway? It all stopped however when Tom knocked on his door, not to announce that breakfast was ready, but to tell him that he had visitors waiting for him in one of the private meeting rooms.

And that said visitors were the Minister of Magic _himself_ , accompanied by Aurors.

Riddle jumped into the action and started hissing advices at him, thinking out loud as Harry changed out from his pyjamas. He would have liked to take a shower, but, well…

He wasn't about to make the _Minister of Magic_ wait, now was he? For all that he didn't care about the position, he should at least make a good impression. Why risk insulting the man? He would only make another enemy and he didn't need more of those.

And Riddle would turn him into a vegetable if he didn't started showing a bit more of his Slytherin qualities. Now was as good as anytime to do so.


	11. Chapter 10 : Interview

_And it's out!_

 _Oh, hey there. It's been a while, huh?_

 _Yeah, it's a bit of a story actually. You see, this fanon took over my mind, then immediately declared war upon the mindset I need to write this story. Once I got over my small relapse in shojo manga, with the help of those good mentally messed up ninja (with a side-effect of a small addiction to the Naruto world, but it's not like it's a bad thing, right?), I finally went back to work._

 _Then a black cat got lost on its way of life and happened to cross the road in front of an old lady carrying way too much groceries... It was horrible._

 _Anyway! I hope you enjoy this new chapter!_

 _Disclaimer : I don't own Harry Potter._

* * *

As soon as Harry was out of his room, he had been 'led' to the room the Minister was waiting in (he had doubts about the true motive behind this escort, considering that the tall muscled Auror looked at him as if he was going to bolt instead of looking out for an attacker – Riddle called him a traditional sort of Auror, existing more to fill in the ranks of canon fodder and give an impression of strength rather than to do actual work in the fields). Standing next to the door had been another Auror, an old-looking one who didn't seem happy to be where he was. After exchanging a nod that didn't quite looked like a greeting between counterparts, the old Auror had taken over Harry-Watch duty while his partner went to station himself at the end of the corridor.

Harry flinched when a hand curled threateningly around his arm, only just keeping himself from retaliating as Riddle glared at the older wizard. A wand was pointed under his nose and his breath hitch – _why was he threatening him?! Stop fucking touching him! Get away from him!_

"What do you think you're doing, Sirius Black?" The wizard growled, the wand's tip glowing red.

…what?

The words made Harry's face melt into an unimpressed stare, his uneasiness gone when he understood what the other was trying to do. On a side note, he _really_ had to think of something to do about the Tower's brain cells draining power, because he'd bet his wand arm that the Auror before him had been a Gryffindor. Or, if less likely, a Hufflepuff (because the House certainly has its fair share of idiots, but again most Houses did), but most badgers seemed to associate physical contact with comfort instead of aggression like the rest of Hogwarts. So he was very likely to have been a lion, the pride of Hogwarts doing most of said aggression in the school to begin with.

"Harry, please meet Traditional Auror Number Two." Riddle said in a pleasant voice, an odd lilt to his voice saying that he was completely _not_ thinking flattering thoughts. "Considering his _pathetic_ magical aura and pitiful intimidation skills, he was probably stuck with babysitting duty despite his years of so-called experience in the Auror Corps' offices. His family or friends, if he ever had any, most likely put a word out for him at the Ministry, since I do not give him enough credits to have passed his end of the year exams at Hogwarts, never mind his O.W.L.s or N.E.W.T.s."

Harry huffed in response to Riddle's mockeries, then gave the Auror his best uncooperative expression. "My name is Harry James Potter. Tom told me the Minister was here to see me and I came."

The suspicious look he got from his answer _might_ have made a guilt-ridden child to spill his guts over an old case of candy-smuggling in the nursery. It looked more like the man was twisting his face in an ugly mask, and without the serious glint in his eyes one could have mistaken the man's motive to be a jesting one.

Harry didn't laugh. It was a very close call, but he managed to resist the urge. Riddle scoffed with disdainful contempt, a sound Harry had surprisingly not heard before – a quick look to the side informed him that the young Dark Lord was wearing a disgusted expression, one that pulled at his lips, nose and eyebrows and twisted his beauty into a mildly threatening, less-than-perfect fleshy face. Not to the point of looking rabid or simply mad, but just as approachable (which meant that anyone seeing that face would feel the desire to turn heels and run away – this expression said that he might just let you do it, too, if you were quick enough about it).

Harry noticed that he didn't felt his scar twinge, not even a little bit, when it was clear that Riddle was upset. Did that meant that Riddle was usually hurting him on purpose (which would not surprise him), or that there was an element of the pattern he had yet to understand?

He was forcibly shoved into the private meeting room before he could continue that particular line of thought. Two more Aurors were guarding the door in the inside of the room, while another was coming and going in the back, walking exactly one meter behind the seated form of the Minister of Magic.

Cornelius Fudge, Harry realised, looked even more nervous in person than he did in the _Daily Prophet_ 's pictures. Of course, announcing the capture of the responsible for the self-transfiguring pebbles tripping people in Diagon Alley was not the same thing as coming out in the open to tell a teenager that a murderer was after him – or so they (as in Harry and Riddle) thought was the reason behind this little meeting. Surely the Minister would not show up in person to summon Harry to the Ministry?

"Hello, Minister." Harry greeted politely.

"Ah, Harry!" The Minister pulled himself out of his chair (with great difficulties, as the chair was fluffy and the man portly) and walked toward Harry, holding out a hand that Harry shook with a repressed wince – the hand was sweaty and, just like Aunt Petunia's arms, squidgy. "The Boy-Who-Lived, eh? Oh, what are my manners? Please sit, sit! I had Tom bring me some tea, if Earl Grey is fine with you? Excellent! Augustine, please pour us a cup each."

"Thank you." Harry said when the Auror previously walking behind the Minister paused in his duties to play servant. He got a nod in reply, before his attention returned to his duties. Harry decided that it was time to get the conversation started so that he could learn the reason(s) of why the Minister was there. "Excuse me if I'm blunt, Minister, but may I enquire as to why you wanted to see me?"

The Minister sipped his tea, causing Riddle to make an irritated sound at the obvious attempt to delay his answer. This time, his scar itched for about two point three seconds, before Riddle straightened his back and started walking around them, passing through Auror Augustine like he didn't exist when the Auror turned unexpectedly.

"Yes, well…" Fudge blinked, before turning his eyes on Harry, then looking down and taking one of the pastries on the table between them. "I probably did not need to come in person, but my schedule was free and I wanted to make sure you were safe in person."

"Someone has been doing interferences between you and the Ministry." Riddle spoke up, almost making Harry look at him – he fortunately caught himself in time. "To isolate you from them, to keep their influences away from you. I don't think I need to tell you who was being this."

Harry agreed, even if he was a bit confused as to how the older teen had gotten to this conclusion with only one sentence. He'd ask later, if he still didn't understand.

"I'm very grateful." Harry replied gently. "But safe from what?"

The Minister bit into his scone, once again delaying his answer. Harry inwardly scowled – didn't he get his speech prepared beforehand or something? Like : Harry Potter needs to be told this, that and that ; he must not know this and this. It wasn't _that hard_ to plan ahead, was it?

And yes, he was perfectly aware that he was being somewhat hypocritical. But Harry _thrived_ on improvisation (he was still alive, it was all the proofs he needed), while the Minister clearly didn't, so it wasn't that big of a deal.

"After what happened with your uncle," the Minister started, pausing when Harry flinched to give him a reassuring smile, "it has come to the Ministry's attention that a few wards against your home were illegal. You are in no way in trouble for them, because they are too old for you to have been able to cast them, but a particular ward had been concealing information from the Ministry-regulated wards put in the area when you were accepted into Hogwarts. Information that could have prevented your familial situation from becoming what it is now. It isn't rare when muggles react badly to our world and a few Ministry-approved spells are often all that is needed to correct the guardians' behaviour toward the children. It is for this reason that, while we would have returned you to your home considering the current situation, the Ministry will instead post an Auror guard at the Leaky Cauldron as well as double the security in Diagon Alley. Since this is mostly for your security, we will ask of you that you do not leave the area until a Ministry chauffeur is sent for you on September 1st."

The first thing Harry understood was that the Wizarding World had an even poorer attitude toward muggles than he had thought – the second was that, by the Minister's orders, _he was obligated not to got back to the Dursleys'_. A wide grin spread on his lips as he nodded and assured the Minister that he wouldn't leave, because while he was being ordered, he was also being saved from going back to his relatives' home – he had a solid reason not to return, and for this he decided that he would play nice with the Minister.

Riddle seemed to have followed his thoughts and scoffed again, probably calling him un-ambitious and easily pleased in not-so-gentle words in his mind. Harry ignored him.

"Good." Minister Fudge said with a pleased expression. "Now that this is over with, we can talk about your family's fate. Normally this would have been done at the Ministry, but this room is secure enough and Augustine here will serve as witness. Alright?"

Harry nodded, but he knew that he didn't really had a choice. This was most likely another reason for the Minister to visit him – Auror Augustine was probably someone the Minister felt was loyal to him, so anything Cornelius Fudge didn't want known would never leave this room. It made Harry wonder what about this made the Minister think he'd have to meddle with, or what could possibly hurt his career.

Riddle also made an interested sound, which managed to make Harry nervous where meeting the Minister didn't. But, of course, a wanna-be Dark Lord would always be scarier than a portly wizard, especially since the first could torture Harry with a thought. He very much doubt that Fudge would torture him in a public building, too.

The Minister took a deep breath, then started speaking again. "Because your uncle, and we were recently made aware of his sister, was not related to you, he would normally have received a 'promotion' of sort at his job, to disguise his disappearance, then be sent to the Tower, a wizard-kept muggle prison, but with his death his family will only have to pay you an amount of gold for years of ill-treatments. Marjorie, Dudley and Petunia Dursley will be judged once the legal mourning period is over, so in three months, but since you will be in school it was decided to do your interrogation now, then during the Christmas holidays if any more points were brought up. Augustine, if you would?"

The Auror scowled, but stopped walking and stood behind the Minister, before pulling a red notebook and a gold quill.

"Now, I will ask you a few questions and you must answer truthfully." The Auror gave a dark glare behind the Minister's head, adding the ' _or else_ ' his boss wasn't saying. "It's only protocol, but I understand that a few questions might upset you, so take your time answering them. We have the whole morning to do this and I'm sure Tom won't mind if we take a little bit longer."

 _Of course he won't mind, you're the Minister of Magic_ , Harry thought with a shy polite smile.

"July 12, 1993, approximately seven o'clock, Room 12 at the Leaky Cauldron, Minister of Magic Cornelius Fudge as Prime Interrogator. Auror Frederic Augustine as Prime Witness and Script." Harry jumped in his seat when a voice spoke from behind him. One of the Aurors guarding the room had stepped closer to them and had started speaking, Auror Augustine's quill running across his notebook without the man even holding it – why was he even the _Script_ , then? "Me, Auror Hubert Sloper, as Overseer. Auror Armand Kiely as Second Witness. Hogwarts student Harry Potter as interviewee."

Fudge cleared his throat, then spoke with a loud and authoritative voice. "Cornelius Fudge speaking. May the interviewee say his name and date of birth."

"Harry Potter, July 31st. 1980." Harry added at the sharp look given to him by the not-so-nice-looking Auror Sloper.

"May the interviewee narrate what happened on June 25th, 1993."

"May the interviewee explain why he left the Dursley home on June 27th, 1993."

"May the interviewee list the offences against his person he suffered from associating with the Dursley family."

"May the interviewee inform this party of what he knows about the wards on the Dursley propriety."

It went on and on, Harry answering with half-truths whenever he needed to mention something that could possibly hinted at his less-than-innocent personality. He certainly didn't want to know if the strange quill would react to a lie, because then he would have to explain why he had lied and what was the truth he had tried to hide.

They finished one hour before noon, which the Minister took as an opportunity to ask Harry about his life – how was school, who were his friends, were those rumours about Harry finding the Chamber of Secret and fighting its monster was _true_?

Riddle had _advised_ him to answer cautiously about the Chamber, so Harry decided to deviate the conversation to the previous year's 'adventure'. About how Professor Dumbledore had used the Philosopher Stone as a bait for the surviving Lord Voldemort. Fudge had reacted in an interesting way when he mentioned that, after the usual shiver of fear and unease. Riddle looked smug at that.

"Harry, my boy, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead." Fudge replied softly, as if speaking to a mentally deficient boy. Harry twitched a the tone.

Harry was about to insist that Voldemort was very much alive, but then he paused and turned to look at Riddle, seemingly watching the painting the older teen was standing in front of.

"He said that he was Vol… him." Harry said, interrupting himself at the apprehensive look the Minister gave him. "He said that if I gave him the Stone, that he'd bring my parents back. And his skin burned when I touched him. Headmaster Dumbledore said that V… _he_ had never really died."

"Well, he was lying, probably trying to conceal his lapse in security and judgement. He could be excused for falling to You-Know-Who's schemes, but to a normal wizard?" Fudge looked like he was trying not to snap, pursing his lips a little and twisting his handkerchief in his sweaty palms. Then he sighed, and said strongly : "You killed You-Know-Who almost twelve years ago. The Aurors who investigated your old home found his ashes in the ruins."

Harry shrugged, uneasy. He never really liked the fact that everybody just assumed that he had killed the powerful if insane wizard because he had been the only survivor. He still knew better than to hint at someone else having done the deed, because, while his fame was unwanted, he certainly appreciated the perks of being a celebrity (a.k.a people giving him special treatment and not punishing him harshly when he broke the rules).

"I'm sorry." Harry whispered, sounding ashamed. "It's just, Headmaster Dumbledore…"

"Is an old man trying to capitalize on his reputation of Dark Lord slayer." Fudge insisted arrogantly. "He probably wanted to use you to 'recreate' You-Know-Who, to relive the glory of defeating a powerful enemy. No, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named is dead, Harry. Don't let anyone else persuade you otherwise."

Harry nodded shyly. "Yes, Sir."

"Good." The Minister nodded fiercely. "Then I must say that our time together has come to an end. I have an appointment at one o'clock, you see…"

"I understand, Minister." Harry said gently. "Thank you for your time."

"Ah, yes, yes…" The man rose from his seat and headed for the door, patting Harry's shoulder as he passed by him. "Enjoy the rest of your summer vacations, Harry."

Harry gritted his teeth as the Aurors followed the Minister out. He took the last scone on the plate (the Minister had felt a bit too awkward to pick it, considering that he had eaten all of the others Tom had left in the room, and Harry had just enjoyed watching the man give it painful longing looks) and bit into it, waiting for Riddle to give his assessment of the situation.

"You're toeing a fine line." Riddle finally said, sitting in the seat the Minister had just vacated. Harry figured that, since he had no body, he didn't had an actual weight or mass – Riddle was just a soul using a projection his old body's image to interact with the world, right? – so he wasn't really sitting, just _looking_ like he was sitting. "You agreed with the Minister that my older self was gone, when Dumbledore knows that you know that you truly met me a few times. And your perfect story will probably sound a little too perfect to his ears – he never really believed me or my allies whenever we did some cover-up."

Harry hummed, sipping his cold tea. His scar stung in warning and he gave the other teen a small glare, opening his mouth to show the half-masticated food inside – thus explaining why he wasn't talking. Riddle gave him a disgusted look, but didn't insist on the issue.

"You did a good enough job of covering your trail." Riddle continued as if he had never stopped and Harry startled at the compliment, immediately wary of the teen. Why would he butter Harry up for? The teenage Dark Lord knew that sucking up to Harry wouldn't get him into his good graces, so _what was he planning_?! "Just be ready for some of it to end in the _Daily Prophet_. Fudge seems to have a vendetta against Dumbledore and probably didn't appreciate the tinkering wards on your house. Your Uncle's death is a perfect opportunity for him to attack the old man's reputation by putting the blame of your abuse on his shoulder."

"The blame already is there." Harry retorted, scowling a little. "He wants me miserable – if all he had wanted was the Blood Wards for my protection, then he still could have used those mind-altering Ministry spells to make sure they treated me right. And it's not like I ever hid however they treated me. Or how they felt about me."

"But you never outright said it, I gather." Riddle didn't seem to mock him, which made him even more suspicious.

Actually, Harry was two breaths away from reaching the paranoid-level, Riddle's uncharacteristic _patience_ and _niceness_ not going well with him… and bloody Merlin! Did that made him some sort of masochist if he preferred the short-tempered, easily annoyed, condescending sadist Riddle usually was to this level-headed, emotionless personality twist? For some reason, the latter seemed scarier; it was like he could explain how exactly he will torture you for his sole pleasure in a purely mechanical and factual voice.

Then Riddle sighed, tilting his head and frowning with a displeased expression on his face. Harry already felt better at the small show of emotion. "It doesn't matter anymore. Now that your Ministry interview is done with, we can start training seriously. I shall instruct you in the art of Occlumency and we will spend the rest of the summer asserting your abilities. I refuse to teach you if you cannot reach an acceptable level of competence, especially if I have to suffer through _Divination_ with you for the next five years."

Harry winced behind his cup, sipping the cold beverage not to give his apprehension away. Being trained by Riddle? A nightmare hidden behind a dream: he'd probably learn a lot of wonderful and powerful magics, but Riddle would probably be a slave driver. Scratch that, _he was a sadistic slave driver_.

The following weeks were filled with curses, tears, aching muscles and a throbbing mind. Riddle would take advantage of their connection as often as possible to inflict pain to his poor, innocent little student whenever he thought that Harry was not giving everything he had to his studies.

The young Potter only got some respite when he was fetched from his room by what Riddle had called his 'ginger minion and walking-brain friend' – Riddle called it a reward for meeting his standards within two months, Harry saw it as a much needed breather after climbing out of some new sort of Hell.

Because while he understood the necessity of hiding Riddle's continuing existence from people fishing for information in his mind, he didn't quite understand why he needed to relive, again and again, every humiliating moments of his life (because that was what Riddle was primarily digging for – it made him furious afterward, for some reason, causing their connection to give Harry a potent headache, but he still didn't look for anything else. Maybe Riddle was a closet masochist under all that sadism?).

Riddle was strange. And Harry was going to have to live with him, in close quarters, for the whole next _five years_.

He didn't weep, but it was a close call.


	12. Interlude 2 : Horcrux

_I am feeling generous, so please accept this small bonus of an Interlude._

* * *

 _October 31_ _st_ _, 1943 – Chamber of Secrets_

The walk down toward the Chamber had been in silence, apprehension twisting his stomach into knots and filling his mouth with an after-taste of bile. The knowledge of what he was going to do, of the actions that had horrified him from _reading_ the terrible tome (never mind doing them himself), almost managed to make him run back to his dorm and seek comfort from his bed.

But Tom Riddle wasn't so easily thwarted from his goals. His fear of death, of eventually turning into Nothingness, was also stronger than his morals. He had one too many enemies not to feel Death breathing down his nape and, for all that people sung his Greatness and transcending Goodness, Dumbledore wasn't the least of them.

He only had two more years at Hogwarts – after those, he wouldn't have to put up with his cold looks and the self-righteous warnings given to others about Tom. He wouldn't have the fears of something slipped into his goblet by either that man or some of his least than friendly schoolmates. And, starting the first day of the new year, he wouldn't have to go back to the Orphanage where bombs and starvation were the friendlier threats. Having gotten rid of the Trace on himself meant nothing when the very building was warded to detect magical outbursts, especially since the Matron kept them inside _just to be safe_.

A deep breath shook his thin frame, his polished shoes shaking off the slime gathered on them as he stopped before the last door to his heritage.

 _$Open!$_ He hissed, before walking inside and closing the door behind him – better not to take chance, since that man's pet burning chicken could bypass most wards. It was only his ancestor's paranoia that had saved him from being discovered early. It had turned the Chamber not only into a prized inheritance, but into a refuge of a sort; away from all of those that might wish him harm and from the others who considered themselves as his friends.

But he had no friends and had no use for them. He wasn't lonely, because the very presence of an individual in a ten-meters radius from him was an individual too many. It made his skin itch and his teeth ache, and having to _smile_ or be _polite_ felt like swimming in a pool of Devil's Snare – being pulled back by his desire to isolate himself and pulled sideways by his conflicting lust for blood, violence, pain and horror.

It didn't meant that his performance was anything but perfect – he demanded nothing short of excellence from himself, knowing his own capability to be able of producing such a thing. But the fact was that he _didn't want to_. His talent at manipulating others, making them dance to his tune, at turning ugly truths into pretty lies… His talent meant nothing to him, because he would prefer making a living out of learning and discovering. Only his ambition – his ambition to never let anyone dictate anything from him ever again – and his blood had him Sorted into Slytherin and he knew that perfectly well.

Even then, he was sure he would have been more content in Ravenclaw. He was proud of being in his ancestor's House, but he wasn't blind enough to think that he would not have had a better life in the House of Knowledge. Not only was there less blood purists in Ravenclaw, one show of power would have made sure he wouldn't be targeted by bullies, and the Deputy Headmaster would most likely have been less suspicious of him – because the man's hatred for all things Slytherin wasn't that much of a secret among the students.

His footsteps echoed in the empty Hall – he had sent the Basilisk outside last evening when he had brought his sacrifice during his Prefect rounds. He did not cared about the man's life, would not even raise an eyebrow if he would have found him dead in an alley. What was asked of him, on the other hand… It made Tom feel a little bit sick.

Well, at least now his fears were allayed – he wasn't a psychopath like he had thought. Probably a misanthrope, which was something he could easily live with. Had he been a psychopath, it would have meant that something was wrong with his head – and he very much _did not wanted_ something to be wrong with his head. His mind was as much a treasure as his magic, a sign of his superiority over the sheep he was surrounded with against his will, and he cherished it just as much as he hungered to stimulate it.

But sometimes being a genius was not all that pleasant. To have to tolerate those of inferior mental aptitudes, especially those considered as _smart_ , felt torturous. Like they were tearing out his brain cells just by proximity. And he wasn't being an angsty teenager when saying that – it physically _hurt_ when so-called smart people spoke of things they half-learnt, most often incorrectly. Those who admitted their ignorance, but still worked to pursue knowledge were slightly more tolerable, if only because they didn't assume things. Unfortunately, admitting ignorance in Slytherin was a social suicide and only some of the Hufflepuffs and even less Ravenclaws would freely admit to not being fully knowledgeable.

Tom knew he didn't know everything and that the education he was receiving, and thus his knowledge, could be flawed. He still knew better, knew more, knew greater aspects of information than most. His perfect memory, his potent ability to learn and adapt the knowledge he knew of, his thirst to better himself – all of those things made him better than the rest of the world, if only because his vision knew no limits. His ambition knew no limits, because he didn't have a particular dream to attain.

Tom Riddle would not be satisfied with anything but the best, and the best of anything could still be better. Which was why he wanted – no, _needed_ to be immortal. The Horcrux he was about to make was only a back-up plan, a last measure he had allowed himself because his fear was too great. And to make an Horcrux he had to kill, even if he felt that the theft of a life was a… despicable act, in the meaning that it was making some deeply buried instinct in him protest meekly. Something in him was afraid of the act, of its consequences, and he was ignoring a perfectly well-attuned instinct in favour of soothing his fear. He could not act another way. His paranoia was too great and he knew that it was simply his human nature of self-preservation sabotaging his mind.

And yet, he had still kidnapped a homeless muggle (one he had used Legilimency on to assure himself that no one would miss, it had taken him three subjects before he got the one he that fit his criteria) to kill in his ritual. A ritual he had modified slightly, because anyone could have access to the books he had read and he didn't want to leave a piece of his soul vulnerable to destruction. Horcruxes were horrifying magic, but someone cruel enough or with a strong stomach could read the process of creating _and_ destroying one. There had not been much about the creation part, which was why Tom had 'modified' an incomplete ritual (he knew how stupid it was to do so, but he was just too terrified of death _not_ to go through with it).

A normal Horcrux needed only a murder, a potion-soaked vessel and a full moon. Tom didn't had the full moon, but he had _Samhain_ , as well as a pentacle to soften the tear of his soul and amplify the magic of the to-be Horcrux. Usually, a Horcrux would not be able to survive if destroyed, but Tom was hoping (his hope was backed-up by thorough calculations, he was not _that much_ of an idiot) that a powerful magical reserve would allow the Horcrux to defend itself if threatened. He didn't know how exactly, since he doubted that an object could channel magic to cast spell, but his hypothesises varied from sucking life energy to creating a thick magical field force to repel anything that wasn't the Horcrux.

Looking at the sleeping muggle, Tom went to work. He draw the pentagram, dropped the ingredients at their right places and took a deep breath.

He closed his eyes and cleared his head, focusing his entire being on his project. He would not fail. And when his diary had become an Horcrux, he would look into other forms of immortality that didn't cost him a piece of his soul.

Another deep breath and he was ready. He opened his eyes, looking coldly at his sacrifice, and pointed his wand at him.

" _Avada Kedavra._ "

* * *

Tom woke up feeling numb, blinking quickly to get rid of the tiredness in his body. It took him a moment to remember what he had been doing down the Chamber, his eyes immediately finding the dead body that had been his sacrifice – then his eyes turned toward his diary, which now housed a bit of his soul. Effectively anchoring him to the realm of the livings.

He stood and took careful steps toward the little book. He bent down, carefully in case his equilibrium had been affected, and took the diary in his hands, feeling its unnatural warmth sink into his icy skin.

His lips twitched as his eyes widened. He had done it – he had created an Horcrux. He had done it! He was immortal! _Immortal!_ He had _done it! It was done! He wouldn't die, never and ever! HE WOULD NOT DIE!_

His throat was hurting and he belatedly realised that he was laughing. Loudly. Like a madman.

Then he looked at the book in his hands and he ignored his strange behaviour. He deserved to celebrate his success, and even if he had never laughed like that before, it didn't meant that something was wrong.

Because it was done. It was _finally done!_


	13. Chapter 11 : Dementor

_Well, hello there. Is this a good time for another chapter? 'Cause I got a brand new one right here. Anyone?_

 _To PhantomCielo27, and the rest whom this might concern : actually, Harry does remember that he has a piece of Voldemort's soul stuck to him, it's just that I didn't get to mention it in the story yet. Also, it's a rather sensitive topic for our paranoid duo, and Harry doesn't feel quite comfortable with bringing it up - he just knows that this made him all that more valuable to Tom and could potentially mean being removed from Voldemort's black list. Sorry for the lack of clarity..._

 _Wait! One more second, pretty please! I've got some news! I put on a poll on my profil page, for story ideas that popped up during my, er, delay period? It's Naruto X Harry Potter crossovers, please give it a look? At least to help me figure out what to focus on among them? Thanks!_

 _Okay. Right, so... um..._

 _Right. Please proceed to the entertainment part of this multi-chaptered fan-made, non-lucrative online publication._

* * *

The morning of September 1st started, like the previous year, with the redhead lot scrambling around to pack their things before they were due to leave. Mrs Weasley had, in a bout of genius, declared that no one got to eat breakfast if their trunks were not ready – that left Harry eating his traditional English breakfast with Hermione and Percy, the Weasley couple busy overseeing their children's packing to make sure they still had some time to eat before they had to go.

"How do they even _need_ to pack?" Hermione exclaimed, sounding astounded. "We arrived _yesterday_. And we spend most of the day in Diagon!"

Percy, well used to his family's quirks, gave an uneasy one-shoulder shrug before returning to his toast. Riddle, who was busy listening to other people's conversations, nevertheless heard her and huffed in agreement. Harry rolled his eyes at him, then grinned sheepishly when he got an inquiring eyebrow from Hermione at his gesture.

"Ron probably searched for something in his trunk and didn't bothered putting things back inside." Harry said, repressing a shiver when he recalled Riddle's punishment when Harry had nearly done the same thing earlier that summer. 'Nearly', because he had had to clean up despite his body still twitching from the pain – Riddle apparently refused to live with a sloth, especially if he didn't have any choice on who his anchor was.

"It does sound like him." Hermione sighed, before turning a shrewd look toward him. "I'm actually surprised you kept your room clean this summer. You're not usually so orderly in your dorm."

Harry swallowed his mouthful of hash browns before giving Hermione a Look, his twitching lips ruining the impression he was trying to make – his friend's eyebrow rose even higher and, for a moment, he wondered if she could pull a muscle from doing this for too long.

"I had a moment of enlightenment this summer." Harry replied in a mock serious voice, before sagging his shoulders and making a small fatalistic 'Eh'. "Even cleaning sounds better than doing homework."

"Harry!" Hermione cried out in a despairing tone. "You told me you completed your homework in July!"

"I did." He muttered, abandoning his plate for his goblet of pumpkin juice. "That's why cleaning sounded better than going over my homework _again_. How you _want_ to go over mine and Ron's essays all the time in school is something I'll never understand."

"I just want the two of you to get good grades." Hermione replied with an offended huff. "But if you don't want my help…"

"I never said that!" Harry quickly, looking with panicked eyes to where Riddle was to make sure the teen wasn't listening – no luck, he met the mocking crimson eyes and he flinched, looking away. Because he was well-acquainted with the older teen's definition of 'help', and he'd rather beg Hermione than turn to Riddle for assistance. Not mentioning that Riddle's help had a price… "I'm very grateful for the help you give me! I'm just very impressed that you can do it without falling asleep in boredom!"

The pleased smirk on Hermione's lips made him realise that she had played him and he scowled at her, returning to his breakfast. She had nearly made him have a heart attack, making him think about what he would do without her! That was stuff out of nightmares, being _dependant_ on _Riddle_.

Because the teachers were just too busy to help students out of class, and it wasn't like he could go to Snape for something he didn't understand in potions. Or Binns, the last time he had tried that the ghost had flown right through him seemingly without noticing him.

"While I am grateful for the help you are giving my brother," Percy suddenly said to Hermione, "I wouldn't want him to take credit for your efforts."

"Of course." Hermione agreed readily. "That's why I only look over their finished work, and if it's badly done I gave it back for them to redo. And if Ron asks for help, then I just give him a few important points without going into details. Harry usually asks for small clarifications or page numbers, and he's not the kind to just copy anyone's work so I sometime let him look over my homework if he's stuck."

Percy made a small sound of approval before Hermione engaged him in a discussion on Arithmancy. Harry listened with half an ear, having already heard most of it from Riddle's mouth – the teen insisting that Harry learnt the material outside of class, because a lot of important magics depended on Runes and Arithmancy. And it wasn't like Harry really had a choice, Riddle would just torture him until he agreed.

He still wasn't abandoning Quidditch. That was something no amount of torture could change, because Harry knew that Riddle's private humiliation would be worth it. Honestly! It was the only way he had found to get some well-deserved revenge against the teenage Dark Lord! How could the other even _think_ that Harry would let it go?

The designated Ministry chauffeur came as promised, only with an additional one following him after the Weasleys had made it known that they would be accompanying Harry to the station. It took almost half an hour to pack everything in the expanded cars and split everyone in the two vehicles (though most of the time had been taken by Mrs Weasley who had tried to pull her youngest son away from his breakfast plate, as Ron had shown up last with only a few minutes to spare to eat). They had to run to get onto the train on time, which Harry wasn't surprised by as he had some experience from the previous year to refer to, but Hermione's hair had nearly grown into a frizzy cloud of static as she lagged behind, not used to the intense running.

Harry had had to take her trunk from her (nearly stopping in his tracks at its weight – _how many books were in there?!_ ) so that they wouldn't miss the train. It left them panting in the moving Hogwarts Express' corridor, Fred and George laughing their heads off at the near-miss with Percy glaring at them.

"I need… _huff_ … Prefect meeting… _huff huff_." The Gryffindor Head Boy was holding his side, glaring harder at his brothers who only laughed louder.

The group gave the seventeen years old nods, too breathless to give a proper goodbye, and watched the redhead walk away. Harry, Ron and Hermione exchanged a look, before huffing something that distantly sounded like 'see you later' and leaving to look for available compartments.

"What do you have in your trunk, Mione?" Harry couldn't help but whine after finally catching his breath. "Bricks? Are you planning to build a mini-Hogwarts this year?"

The brown haired girl rolled her eyes at him, before returning to her study of the surrounding compartments.

"It was perfectly fine when I left home." The witch protested lightly. "I just bought a few things for Crookshanks, so that he wouldn't be bored when we're in class."

Harry looked at his best friend with a deadpan look. "You didn't bought the whole store, did you?" It was certainly heavy enough for him to consider it – he knew there were spells on her damned trunk to make it lighter!

"No!" Hermione shouted, only it came a little wheeze-y. "Just some… Hey, there's only one person in here. He's sleeping."

They poked their heads inside, observing the sleeping man with suspicious eyes. Ron was the first to step inside, pushing his trunk into the racks before sitting near the window. Harry and Hermione shared a commiserating look before following suit.

"Who do you think he is?" Ron asked after they were all seated.

"Professor R.J. Lupin." Hermione replied easily in a hushed tone, her eyes shining with curiosity – Harry tried hard not to laugh as she took everything in about the man, from his scarred face and old clothes, but he was doing the same, just more discretely.

After all, one DADA teacher had tried to kill him and the other was a fraud who had not had his best interests at heart. He needed to be ready in case something was wrong with this one too.

"How do you know?"

"It's written on his trunk…"

Harry tuned out the conversation, up until he heard an odd whistle coming from his trunk. Ron's birthday gift had probably escaped the old sock he had hidden it in – because it was _constantly whistling_ whenever Harry was around, informing the young Gryffindor that he wasn't trustworthy (which he had kinda already suspected, but…). Riddle had even left the room to check if the stupid thing wasn't reacting to him and had then asked Harry to do the same. The end result? Neither Riddle nor Harry were trustworthy. What a surprise.

"It's the Sneakoscope you gave me." Harry answered when Ron asked what the sound was. "It just keeps whistling, I think it's broken."

The redhead frowned. "It is? Well, it's not high quality stuff, so maybe it got damaged in the travel. We can always get it looked at in Hogsmeade."

"I don't think so." Harry replied, stopping Hermione from one of her passionate questioning – she had gotten her I Want To Know Look on at the mention of Hogsmeade, though now it was halfway melt into a worried one. "I got the permission slip after I left the Dursleys, so I can't go. And it's not like Petunia would have signed it anyway, like she would do anything for _me_."

His friends paused, Hermione pursing her lips before giving him a guilty look. He immediately knew what she was about to ask and braced himself.

"How… How are you doing, after what happened?" She asked cautiously, Ron blinking in confusion as he started at her. "I mean, you said you were fine in your letters, but…"

Harry went mentally over the plans he had made for this exact situation, gave the sleeping man a last look before turning back toward his friends, shrugging for the effect.

"I don't care that Vernon's dead." He lied – he was very much happy that the walrus-like muggle was dead. He wouldn't have voluntarily helped his demise otherwise. "I hated him. You don't know how much I hated him, how much I hate _them_. I'm not going to lie and pretend that I mourn him, though I didn't exactly celebrated either. It's not that I didn't want to, figure, but I wasn't exactly in the right shape to do it. Not with the concussion he gave me before he broke his bloody neck."

Hermione gasped, her eyes wide as her hands covered her mouth in horror. Ron, who had turned slightly green as Harry spoke, let out a swear word that would have had his mother scream in outrage. Proof of her shock, Hermione didn't even protest the use of said word.

And was it his imagination or was he hearing a growl? His acute hearing had not disappeared during the summer, but the train itself was rather noisy and the sound stopped rather quickly, so he put it outside of his mind.

"So… Harry… The _Daily Prophet_ , what they said…" Ron asked tentatively, looking ready to throw up.

"You had to break me out of my fucking bedroom last year, Ron." Harry gritted his teeth, inwardly wondering why his ginger companion only seemed to wake up his brain when chess or Quidditch was involved. "What made you think that they had been any nicer to me in the previous years?"

"Did… Did they hit you?" Hermione whispered, teary-eyed.

"Dudley had this game called 'Harry Hunting'." The green-eyed wizard explained stiffly, completely uncomfortable. He still wasn't going to say that the Dursleys had not been 'that bad', he owed _nothing_ to that fucking family and he wasn't going to excuse their behaviour either. "Where I would run and, if his gang caught me, I'd be lucky if I could walk back to the house. But Vernon and Petunia didn't like to touch me, afraid that I'd contaminate them or something. So instead they didn't give me food and kept me as miserable as possible."

"Harry…" Hermione moved as if she wanted to hug him, but she instead opened Crookshanks' cage and held the cat monstrosity against her chest, probably looking for comfort Harry wasn't willing to give or receive. The cat hissed and tried to escape his mistress' grip, but Hermione didn't seem to notice.

"Can we talk about something else?" He plead. "I'd rather not start the school year speaking about _them_." He couldn't help but spit out the word, though he did manage to school in face into a less contemptuous mask. Just because the walrus was dead didn't meant that he wanted people to know how much they affected him.

Ron immediately agreed, looking relieved, while Hermione gave him one sad look before turning to listen to Ron speak some more about his trip in Egypt.

They continued to talk, pausing briefly when the trolley witch stopped by their compartment, then again when Malfoy had to make his usual social visit – he luckily didn't manage to start talking about the news of Harry's home situation, the new Professor Lupin becoming a very welcome shield between the two groups.

And then Harry started to feel sick.

"You were feeling fine this morning, though." Ron muttered, before looking at the empty wraps of candies around them. "Maybe some of the stuff went bad?"

The taste of bile on his tongue managed to convince him against answering, his body shivering madly and his clothes feeling wet from the cold sweat covering his skin.

Strangely, Riddle himself was looking uneasy. The wraith, whom Harry had done his best to ignore before, was looking around with wide eyes, as if he was desperately looking for something. A something that was apparently bad enough to scare Tom Marvolo Riddle, teenage Dark Lord extraordinaire, and didn't that made Harry feel even worse?

"We're almost there." Hermione said encouragingly. "We'll take you to Pomfrey as soon as we arrive, okay? Just hang in there, Harry."

Repressing the desire to tell her to shut up and that she wasn't helping, Harry finally gave in to the desire to curl into a ball. He refused to start whimpering like he wanted, though – he had enough control left not to be _completely_ pathetic.

"We're slowing down." Ron said with a forced enthusiasm. "See? Promfrey will make you feel better only in a few minutes!"

"We're not at Hogwarts, Ron." Hermione corrected, looking through the window. "We would see the station's lights, but it's all dark…"

"Then why are we stopping?"

Hermione didn't answer, but then exclaimed in shock when the train suddenly stop. Similar sounds were repeated from outside the compartment, accompanied with the sudden extinction of all the lights.

Harry's heart started beating furiously in his chest as his mind slowly lost contact with reality – he was hearing and seeing just fine, but he couldn't make sense of anything. He heard a brief keening sound before he felt his mind being invaded, his connection to Tom Riddle becoming the only clear thing in the world.

Riddle was retreating. Riddle was running away from whatever was happening. Riddle was affected even more than Harry was. What did it meant? When would it stop? How bad was it going to get?

His moist skin was touched, causing a pitiful sound to escape his mouth. Warm air caressing his ice cold neck, which made him flinch.

He fell onto the ground and threw up heavily. Exclamations around him, his throat and eyes hurt. There was suddenly light, but it was accompanied by strong gust of _cold_ and _poison_. The very air seemed to be carrying a heavy disease, burning his entire being with its corruption. It suffocated him and he gasped for air, but he got none that wasn't burning his lungs.

Then, in a brief moment of clarity, Harry looked up. He was kneeling in vomit, and the compartment door was sliding open. There were more people than he remembered in the compartment and the sleeping teacher wasn't asleep anymore.

Then all his strengths abandoned him and he _fell_. Unholy shrieks tore his mind apart, his own body convulsing and his hands clawing at his face, his torso vibrating with a sound he couldn't hear through the blood pumping in his ears…

-?-

He realised that he must've fainted when he woke up to a bright white ceiling he was unfortunately growing well-acquainted with. His whole body felt weak, his mind felt like he had gone through three Occlumeny session with Riddle without a break and there was this unusual tired peaceful feeling weighting on him.

Like he couldn't manage to protest if someone wanted to kill him. As if the effort wasn't worth it.

He fought to keep his eyes open, not having the strength to look for his glasses yet. Luckily, he didn't need glasses to see Riddle (a side-effect of Riddle being a soul, he projected his appearance to Harry through their connection – something they had learnt this summer – which was why only Harry could see him).

The older teenager was looking at him with a pensive look, but it seemed that whatever had happened had also taken its toll on the teenage Dark Lord. Riddle's body was flickering, as if he couldn't concentrate long enough to keep himself visible.

"Do not talk." Riddle immediately ordered, approaching him. "The old man put an observation ward around your bed, close your eyes and listen."

Harry obeyed without considering to protest – he was feeling way too tired to even _think_ about being stubborn.

"You have been sleeping for two days, today is Friday." Riddle's voice was slightly rough, not like its usual smoothness, and Harry recalled the shrieks he had heard in his mind. But Riddle had no body, how...? "The whole school thinks that the Dementor attacked you, students saw you being carried out of the train on a stretcher by the nurse cursing those damned beasts. The Minister still refused to take them away, I heard them speaking about how they do not have enough Aurors to give Hogwarts security guards, but they did agree on sparing the school two agents to control the creatures. Your friends are in class right now, but they have been coming here as often as possible. The smart one also received a Time-Turner from your Head of House, it apparently allows you to go back a few hours in time. It is of no use for us yet, so you should not speak of it."

Harry sighed louder than necessary, a subtle way of telling Riddle that he was still listening.

"They thought that you were Black under polyjuice at first." Riddle continued. "So they gave you the counter-potion, but you obviously are not Black so it did nothing. There was a conversation where people did not finish their sentences and where it was speculated that my older self's attack on you as a babe fragilized your soul's link to your body, causing you to react violently to a Dementor's aura. The nurse was especially angered by it, exclaiming how Dumbledore should have brought you to an healer that night instead of stealing you away – I agree with her, it was a foolish thing to do, but that man specialises in foolery so I am not surprised by his decision. After that it was decided to continue their conversation in the Headmaster's Office, but I later heard the nurse cursing out the Ministry for some reason. Your friends merely speak of homework and rumours when they are here, so there is nothing more of interest to share."

Harry was strangely willing to trust Riddle on that last point, though he figured that his current state of shallow peace was to blame for that. He twitched when he heard someone push through the infirmary's doors, opening his eyes to check Riddle's expression – anger, distrust and hatred.

Dumbledore, then.

He sighed again, keeping his eyes from closing only because he knew that he would not be allowed to laze any longer. The prospect of doing _anything_ felt like trying to make a mountain move – as in, he was already tired just by thinking about it.

If this was how Ron felt every time he was told to do his homework… well, he knew how it was now. And Harry would probably never be able to claim tiredness ever again, because even half-dead from Riddle's training sessions had not compared to how he was not.

But that probably was only because… because… Because? What was he thinking about again?

The curtains around his bed were pulled apart, allowing the aged form of Albus Dumbledore to move closer.

Harry's mind flashed to the last time he had been in the infirmary, when he had told the Headmaster a story of his making instead of what had truly happened in the Chamber of Secrets. Then his mind protested at the memory, too much information slipping in his mind for him to understand.

"Hello, Harry." He heard, and his eyes slowly slid toward the wizard who had just spoken. The blurry face of Albus Dumbledore somehow managed to communicate worry and relief, but Harry only analysed it for three seconds before abandoning.

Riddle could very well do it this time, could he not? Harry's brain needed a break after absorbing all he had been told earlier.

"I see you are not fully awakened." Dumbledore murmured in a sad voice, causing Harry to blink lazily. "Well, it is to be expected. Only people who had cohabited with Dementors for a while react like you did and it always leave them in a rather terrible shape. Some take a whole week to wake up, we're happy to see that this is not your case."

"In other words, only criminals react the way you do." Riddle mused, throwing a disgusted look at the old man for good measure. "Be careful with what you say."

"He'mion?" Harry managed to say – his lips weighted _tons_ and it took all his strength to even move his tongue, so he was actually surprised that he actually made any recognizable sounds. Then, as an afterthought, he added : "Hon?"

Because he should be worried about Ron too, shouldn't he? Not just Hermione. And… if he remembered correctly, there had been more people, right?

"Your friends are fine." He was reassured. "Worried about you, but fine. Professor Lupin – that's our new Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts, if you had not realised it yourself – gave them chocolate, which is the usual treatment after a meeting with Dementors, and they were able to go to the feast. Though I'm sure that knowing that you awoke would relieve many of their worries."

Harry hummed, his eyes closing by themselves.

"If I could keep you from your sleep for a little bit longer." The Headmaster's voice kept him from falling back asleep and he nearly groaned, but still slit an eye opened. "Thank you. I assure you, it won't take long."

"Then get to it already." Riddle hissed angrily as Dumbledore breathed in lightly, before sighing in… sadness?

"I wish to give you my deepest sympathies for you uncle's demise. I know you didn't get along well, but nevertheless he was family. It is understandable that you sought to escape after the tragedy, but I must caution you about doing so again. You are only safe while within the wards of your home and all of Cornelius' Aurors would be of no help against Voldemort himself, or one possessed by him. You saw of what he was capable as a child – as an adult, even in a weakened form, he is not someone easily stopped."

No, he was acting all _disappointed_ with him. The asshole! Trying to guilt-trip him into being submissive! The fake calm wavered for a second, before Harry felt its effects come back in force – he was still too tired to fight this unnatural state of being.

"A child." Riddle repeated viciously. "A. _Child._ "

Because he was feeling the expecting eyes of his Headmaster weight on him, Harry made a properly meek sound and turned his head away from the wizard, looking properly chastised.

Dumbledore eventually left, convinced that Harry had fallen back to sleep. It took all of two seconds before Riddle was spitting in rage, ranting against useless meddlesome fools and how he even wanted to be anywhere close to children if that was how he treated them. It gave Harry a powerful headache and filled his dreams with interesting death situations.

Coincidently, every victims had long white beard and crescent moon-shaped glasses. Harry figured he should just be thankful that Riddle had just enough drama-sense to put his targets in black, tattered prisoner robes instead of using the original's fashion sense, so at least it wasn't too much of an eyesore.


	14. Chapter 12 : Discussion

_Hello there, happy to hear of me? I come with a gift! See? I have a new chapter ready!_

 _So, very little happens here, I'm afraid, though a few interesting things (in my opinion, anyway) are brought up. It's a pretty reflective chapter, but again it's what I like to write best, so no surprise here. Just a little WARNING, though : there are not happy thoughts of Ronald Weasley written down there, and while I hardly like the character, this is mostly dismissive, not hateful and not from my part. Remember that our dear Harry is not the nicest of the lot, okay?_

 _After this disclaimer of the non-existent ownership of anything Harry Potter, please allow this humble author to wish you an enjoyable reading._

* * *

Harry was allowed to leave the Hospital Wing on Sunday morning after breakfast, which meant that he was nearly assaulted when he entered the Gryffindor Tower – almost half of the House had been in the common room when he came in, unfortunately.

Now, why did that seemed familiar? Ah, that's right, _they did it every time he left the infirmary._ Genii, Gryffindors were. There was nothing as good as being bodily tackled to the ground and pulled in every direction to heal quicker. The best was to stretch the tendons and ligaments until they were nearly tearing away from the bones and muscles (just like a Chinese finger trap, the more you pulled, the tighter it got, it was _wonderful_ ) and to twist the joints until they popped – and what are you talking about, it wasn't dislocated, it was just the bones saying that it felt good!

Oh, and sorry about the crick in the neck that you're going to have – his sarcasm is just that great. It's precisely THE lowest form of wits in the world, since it comes directly from the ninth basement of _Hell_ (and now he felt like he was taking it a bit too far, so he was going to stop before Riddle stopped being amused and decided to give him a 'warning' for broadcasting).

"Think nice thoughts, Harry." Hermione told him as she slipped to his side, elbowing a particularly noisy Six Year on his left to take his place. Harry much preferred her company to the older teen's anyway. "Your mean face is showing."

One blink and Harry was looking at his friend with all the innocence of a newborn angel, wide green eyes looking at her in confusion.

"Whatever you're talking about?" He asked lightly, widening his eyes even more for better effects.

"Nothing, apparently." Hermione quipped back. "Welcome back among the livings, Harry."

He grinned at her, following her back out of the Tower – they'd come back when the lions had found their collective brain or something. More than likely, it would be the 'something' because Hermione was coming with him and the twins were causing mayhem somewhere else, but he wasn't judging (he totally was). If they preferred to conduct themselves like Neanderthals, all the better for them…

"You know, if I was some kind of noisy know-it-all or some other member of the know-it-better-than-you species, I would correct you and say that Dementors don't kill, they just eat your soul and leave an empty fleshy shell of a person behind." He remarked airily when the Fat Lady's portrait closed behind them.

"Are you trying to tell me something, Harry?" Hermione asked with a narrowed look.

Harry kept his innocent face on, looking confusedly at his best friend. "I meant Percy."

The bushy-haired girl huffed in amusement. He was already forgiven then, like he had planned, and the conversation was going where he wanted it. Wait, why did he had to subtly 'prep' the conversation when Hermione would probably not mind the subject? Damn it, Riddle was rubbing off on him! "Of _course_ you did, Harry. You couldn't have meant _anyone_ else, obviously."

"Obviously." He repeated with a serious nod, before cracking a teasing smirk. _No beating around the bush, no beating around the bush, NO beating around the bush…"_ But more seriously, I don't think there's a fate worse than that – spending your last moments kissing some putrefied beast, then having your soul digested or whatever happens to you once you in a Dementor's stomach. If they even have stomach, I mean."

"Is there a point to this, or are you just trying to mess with me?" Hermione asked after a moment of silence, visibly not all that appreciative of the concerns he had just brought up in his attempt to be more direct. Well, that would teach him not to let Riddle's bad habits slip into his behaviour…

"I don't _try_ to mess with people, if I do you know it rather quickly. Unless you're Malfoy or his goons, but then they're lost cases and you can't expect too much out of them." He said, before sighing at Hermione's unimpressed look. "No, I'm not messing with you. I'm just attempting to reach an agreement to abuse your amazing bookworm skills to help me search through the library for anything concerning Dementors. I know you would usually have already done that, but I'll go ahead and guess that my stay in the infirmary delayed your hunting trip a bit."

That was too blunt, right? Yeah, Hermione's startled look told him he'd better start looking for sweeteners the next time he was asking for a favour.

"I see." Hermione murmured. "And it did. I tried to look into _The Monster Book of Monsters_ , but it wouldn't stop trying to bit me so I didn't go far. I don't know what Hagrid was thinking, having us buy books that _attack you_ …"

Wait. That might be a slightest bit more important subject to investigate right now, considering that he was pretty sure that this book was for the Care of Magical Creatures class that he was having on _the_ _first period the very next day_.

"Hagrid?" He asked suspiciously. Riddle, who had been silent (as usual whenever Harry was among other people), gave the girl a stunned look.

"You have to be joking." The wraith muttered under his breath.

Hermione looked chagrined. "Yes, Hagrid. He's the new Care of Magical Creatures Professor."

Harry blinked in surprise. "Well, it _does_ explain the bloody book… as annoying as it was… Still, you know, I like Hagrid and he's like… er, enthusiastic enough, but I wouldn't have put him in charge of a class – I mean, he didn't even finished his third year at Hogwarts before he was expelled. And he's forbidden the use of a wand, what is he gonna do if something dangerous happens?"

"I know!" Hermione exclaimed, looking pained. "I mean, I'm happy for him and he loves animals and he knows how to handle them, but I don't think he realises how dangerous some of them are."

"Fluffy." Harry said in a deadpanned voice. "Norbert. Aragog."

"Exactly." Hermione sounded uneasy, more than likely torn between her loyalty to her friend and the reality of the situation – at least he had proof that Hermione's brain had not been taken over by the Tower's color theme yet.

"Wait, the Acromantula is still here?" Riddle hissed, his eyes flashing with anger. "At _Hogwarts?!_ "

"You don't think he'll take us in the forest to study Aragog and his spawns, right?" Harry asked, the mere idea sending chills down his spine – one meeting with the bloody spider and its kids in his life was enough for him, thank you very much – but it was the clearest way he could answer Riddle that he could think of in mere seconds. And Riddle was not a patient being, so he would not have been open to the idea of waiting until Harry was alone to get his answer.

"It _spawned_?" Riddle sounded horrified – for him, at least, but Harry had learnt how to differentiate hateful-anger and hateful-horror during the summer, though the latter was mostly used whenever Harry had interesting ideas (and he'd be lying if he said he wasn't coming up with them on purpose, not that he told the older teenager _that_ ). For once, though, Harry empathised. After all, the subject at hand was the procreation of a colony of _men-eating spiders_ living close to a _school with eleven years old_ and _Harry_ in it. "Did the idiot went and bought the thing a _mate_?"

Harry inclined his head to answer to Riddle's question, then returned his attention to a thinking Hermione.

"I hope not." The Gryffindor girl sounded uncertain, because, yes, she had to admit that this was normal behaviour for Hagrid. With some (bad) luck, he'd convince some poor Hufflepuff that Acromantulas were big misunderstood creatures and said Hufflepuff would go visit the spiders and never come back. "I'll see if I can talk him into sharing his teaching plans for his classes. I mean, it's not like Hagrid will have us studying Cerberi or Hippogriffs in our Third Year."

"Norbert." Harry crushed all her hopes with the name and she glared at him for doing so. But, well, he wasn't feeling up to letting her keep her illusions. "He tried to raise a _dragon_ in a _wooden_ hut, Mione. And then trust _First Years_ to smuggle it out of school and to a reserve. Hagrid's nice, Mione, but I wouldn't have him babysit anything that isn't deadly on a good day. He'd either find it boring and forget to take care of it or kill it while attempting to play with it like he did Norbert."

He ignored how his scar started to sting a bit more than tolerable as a furious Riddle hissed wordlessly. Oh Merlin, how he _loved_ having a mental connection to a sadist that could be use to _hurt him_ … NOT.

"He's not… _that_ bad…" At her unconvinced tone and wince, Harry found it acceptable to just stare at her with a perfectly blank face, though he didn't ask her to repeat that with a more believable voice (she would hit him, and he was still sore from the earlier session with the lions). She huffed at him. "He's _not_ , Harry. He's just… not very, um…"

"Hermione, he's over sixty years old." Harry said, huffing himself. "He was in school with _Voldemort_ , Hermione, _fifty years ago_. I only learnt of it last year with the whole Chamber thing, but doesn't that make him an adult? He told Professor Quirrell about how to get past Fluffy for a dragon's egg, do you want someone as irresponsible as that as a Professor?"

Really, Harry liked Hagrid – the man was friendly enough and his easy-going personality (unless Dumbledore was spoken of in bad terms, because Harry had been legitimately scared of Hagrid when Vernon had mouthed off about the Headmaster) made him into enjoyable company. But Harry didn't _trust_ Hagrid. Not with how easy it was to pull information out of him (he appreciated it when it was in his favour, but he was very aware that Hagrid was overly open with Dumbledore – so, well, no trusting the deadly creatures-loving man), or with his twisted appreciation of what was 'dangerous'. He had also not forgiven Hagrid for throwing him into Aragog's path, where he had learnt _nothing_ new (because he had quickly realised that _of course_ Hagrid couldn't be the Heir, he hated that Slytherins were even breathing the air of Hogwarts, and he had known long before being told by the giant spider that they were afraid of the Chamber's monster – it couldn't even say the _name_ , it was too scary for the, poor, _poor_ arachnids!).

"It's not his fault if he doesn't register what is harmless to him!" Hermione finally declared, throwing him a warning glance when he opened his mouth to give his input on that subject. "Unless you didn't notice, animals _love_ Hagrid and let him get away with playing a bit rough with them. Especially the dangerous ones. And you saw how Norbert's claws and teeth didn't even seem to graze him; he probably has some creature ancestry, like Professor Flitwick. And if a _dragon_ can't hurt him, why would he think that it could hurt the rest of us?"

"You mean that he didn't notice how easily the rest of us bleed or break our bones?" Harry asked wryly. "He goes to Quidditch matches, Mione. I could understand that he'd think that way with muggles compared to wizards, because they're weak as far as flesh creatures go, but…"

"What?" Hermione interrupted him, eyes narrowed and an annoyed gleam in her eyes that Harry couldn't understand. "What did you say about muggles?"

It sounded like a dare – what had he said that upset her so?

"Muggles are weaker than us." He repeated slowly, stopping in his tracks when he noticed Hermione getting angry. He thought quickly about what could have angered her, then almost face palmed when he realised it. _Honestly_ … "Mione, how do you expect a muggle would have ended up falling like Neville did in first year? Or after being hit with a Bludger? We are _physically_ more resistant than muggles, that's a fact, I didn't grow into a muggle-haters during the summer." … _since I've hated them for years already_ , but he didn't say that. There was no need to stroke Hermione's anger, because he didn't know if she would be able to differentiate between hatred and condescension.

He was of the belief that muggles were just as bad as wizards, after all, but that magic made the Wizarding World worth it. Made it redeemable, sometimes.

…Harry wondered if Riddle would let him execute his plans of abandoning Britain after his Seventh Year – surely the to-be Lord Voldemort would not mind helping him fake his death, if only to zap the rebellious spirit out of people? He was a sadist, after all, wouldn't he just _love_ to bring up Harry fifty years after seizing control of the UK, to rub Harry's desertion in the people's face?

Or maybe he'd just lock Harry into a diary and keep him as a trophy. Could he veto that option? Because fifty years in a book didn't seem to have done anything good to Riddle's mind. And Harry's own was already a fragile little thing, kept together only thanks to sheer stubbornness, and the smallest push could sent him spiralling down the world of insanity. If he had not already fallen, which he wasn't overly confident about – crazies didn't know that they were goners, did they?

"…ry! Harry! _HARRY JAMES POTTER!_ "

"Wait, what?!" He jumped in fright, his heart colliding with his ribs, before he caught up with the situation. "Ah… sorry. My mind got away with me."

The worried smile that got him made him smile comfortingly in return.

"Madam Pomfrey said that you'd likely be disoriented for a while." Hermione murmured softly, frowning to herself. "But she didn't say anything about absentmindedness."

Well, that was news to him.

"Why are nobody telling _me_ things?" He whined lowly. "And why the Hell did she let me _walk_ back to the dorms alone if I could be _disoriented_?"

"She told you." Riddle said with a warning pain in his scar. "You simply were not listening."

"You probably just didn't hear her tell you." Hermione unknowingly repeated, an exasperated look directed at him. "And Ron said that _he_ would go fetch you, but he's still at breakfast right now. I was just making a stop to take my books before heading your way."

Oh. He blinked at her blankly. How did one replied to that, anyway? A quick look Riddle's way proved useless, as it only got him a raised eyebrow as if saying 'do you really expect me to _speak_ for you?', which left him staring at Hermione like some closet socially awkward person that had just been ousted.

He knew how to answer to mockeries and insults. Pity was something you accepted with a small smile and a hidden glare because you had to take what you could get in life, but genial _concern_? Were you supposed to eat it or something?

…no, wait, he knew concern – he was just spending way too much time with Riddle recently, so he had forgotten. And the summer had probably made him get rid of a few screws he had not been able to afford to loose…

But he mostly blamed Riddle, because he was just that petty. Which, now that he thought about it, made Hermione all that more precious to him, because she had a _heart_ and she could remind him that he was human too. Not that he wanted to become a goody-two-shoes anytime soon, but he actually _cared_ for her (unlike Ron, who was mostly just a tag-along if useful at times. He had nothing against the redhead… Or did he? He seemed to recall wanting to get revenge… wait, no, that was with Ginny, for nearly making Hogwarts close. Damned his scrambled mind…). Hermione was smart, she had noticed rather quickly during their first year that he was a little odd at times – and she would nag whenever she found him planning not-good odd things – but she had not abandoned him.

They fought, sure. But Hermione seemed to have made it her duty to 'save' him from his slight immorality (he actually _prayed_ she never learnt of what he had done to Lockhart, because Vernon she'd forgive him for eventually) and his own goal was to make her ideals more flexible, so it was a given. They were strongly different people, but it only worked in their advantage ; teaching each others and/or making do where the other lacked strength.

They were also pulling a Weasley behind, because Harry needed a minion (Riddle's nickname, yes, but it had stuck and now Harry couldn't think about Ron in any other way) and Ron had proven capable at taking the brunt of Hermione's nagging whenever Harry needed some alone time for Immoral Plotting Hermione Would Not Approve Of. For example, exploring the Chamber of Secrets. Or hunting the Restricted Section for interesting things. Fortunately, Hermione approved of finding old issues of the _Daily Prophet_ to get better acquainted with the Wizarding World (because, unlike most books, the newspaper showed the propaganda of the actual time instead of the one of the year the book was published), even if he had to deal with sad smiles whenever she found him looking for the Potter name.

"…ry? Harry! This is twice you zoned out on me now! Do I have to take you back to Madam Pomfrey?"

Blinking quickly to chase off his random thoughts, Harry turned toward Hermione with wide eyes.

"No thanks." He replied, before shaking his head. "Sorry about that. What were we talking about?"

"We were discussing your habit of not listening when people talked to you, or of not remembering what you're told." Hermione helpfully informed him. "But I think that you just made my point. Before that we were talking about Hagrid's new job, but we covered that subject just fine. Then before _that_ , you were trying to be subtle when asking me a favour."

Harry blinked again. Damn, but Hermione's memory was a beast. He was sure that he could ask her what he ate for breakfast two hundred and thirty-one days ago that she'd _know_. He couldn't even remember what he ate this very morning!

…toasts, maybe? And most likely pumpkin juice. But anything else? His brain had not considered the information worth remembering.

"About Dementors." He remembered after forcibly keeping his mind from going on another tangent. "Yeah. I want to know why I reacted that way."

Hermione's lips thinned, probably recalling his reaction, but she nodded. "Professor Dumbledore said that, maybe, the Killing Curse wasn't _completely_ blocked that night nearly twelve years ago. Killing Curses cut off the soul off the body, you know? Immediate, painless death – and you'd think that You-Know-Who had worse ways of killing people, though he probably didn't see any appeal into torturing a baby... Sorry Harry. But since your soul was fragilized, the Dementor's aura was probably like rubbing salt and sandpaper on a wound. That's why the greater the exposure the worst people's reactions are, and also why most people are afraid of Black. He spent twelve years with Dementors deliberately feeding off him, what kind of monster is he that he found the strength to escape?"

"Maybe he isn't a complete monster." Harry mused after a few seconds. "Maybe it's just that he found a way to resist them, you know? Like my mother found a way to block the Killing Curse, if only partially."

"If he did, I'd love to know how. Actually, I'd love to know how _you_ survived too, but this is probably easier to figure out." Hermione admitted, looking apologetic. "I mean, I'm not going to start throwing Killing Curses at random people to see what worked and what didn't."

A nervous look Riddle's way informed him that, _yes_ , the wraith was considering the idea. And while Harry would love to know how to make a shield against the unstoppable curse, he wasn't so immoral as to sacrifice a few people in the name of science when dodging was already effective. _One_ , maybe, if it was some fucked up person like Voldemort, but who would spell a shield for someone they wanted dead? It would just be counter-productive.

"Maybe you'll be able to ask Black if he truly comes after me." Harry suggested, smirking at the offended look he got in reply. "I mean, villains like to boast, right? Voldemort certainly did when I met him."

Hermione rolled her eyes and it was Harry's turn to be offended.

"Only people with a flair for dramatics give evil speeches." Hermione informed him with a stern look. "Someone like _you_ , for example."

"I," Harry declared in a clear voice, "don't give _evil speeches_. I make people talk, to _buy myself some time_."

"And I don't need to read your mind to know when you're giving people a mental dressing down. You get that Slytherin look on your face… don't look at me like that, I don't mean _Malfoy_. Did you never see Daphne Greengrass in Herbology? She gives everyone but Neville this look that says that we're just a bunch of useless and clumsy monkeys."

He… somehow remembered the girl, but not in Herbology. Something else to check, then.

He was about to tell Hermione exactly that when he saw the library's door. He frown at it, something not feeling right, giving his smart friend a put out look when she laughed at him – at least she wasn't giggling like a little girl, that would have been weird.

"We walked through here twice already." She informed him with a teasing voice. "You just walked passed it and we were talking, so I didn't stop you."

Riddle looked entirely unapologetic too, but Harry couldn't really be upset at him for it – they had been talking about interesting things, after all, and the teenage Dark Lord hoarded information like a dragon with its treasure. He had clearly decided that Dementors and homework were not as important as knowing that Aragog had spawned.

Or maybe he had just not cared. It was entirely possible, since Riddle was an entire other kind of genius wizard and Harry _didn't_ want to know what happened in that head of his – he had enough nightmares and issues without looking for more – which was one of the reason he had never tried to use their connection himself. That, and Riddle would have probably tortured him until he was in a near-vegetable state.

"If you're trying to tell me that there's something wrong with my head, you're years too late. I knew about that a decade ago."

"Well, they do say that the first step toward rehabilitation is acceptance." Hermione teased, before entering the library before him. "All jesting aside, I simply think that your mind is always multitasking, always busy thinking about different things at the same time, so you have some difficulty thinking in a straight line. It surprises me every time Ron beats you in chess, considering some of the things you come up with on your worse days."

Harry blinked at the strange compliment, before smiling dryly. "I don't _like_ chess. The most powerful piece is also the most vulnerable one and you have to sacrifice your pawns for advancement. And I have more in common with the pawns than the king."

Hermione pursed her lips, not commenting on that, before heading toward the creature section of the library. Harry followed her, looking on the shelves for anything of interest. He could tell that Riddle was looking too, though the wraith kept his mouth shut and left them to their research.

Finally, Hermione found something. You just had to love her.

" _Darkest Fears and How to Fight Them._ " The Gryffindor girl presented him with a dark cover, the letters looking like fresh silver blood – it reminded Harry of the dead unicorn in First Year and he had to repress a shiver.

"What is that doing out of the Restricted Section?" Harry asked as he took the offered book, looking down on the page Hermione was pointing with her finger.

"It's not about the _act_ of dark magic, so it's accessible to everyone." His friend explained. "And it's mostly theory, not much practical or spells, so the worst it would give us is a nightmare."

He took in the greasy paper and the moving image of a Dementor cradling some woman's head in its putrefied hands. There was silvery blue fumes leaving the woman's mouth and slipping into the Dementor's and Harry's stomach rebelled when he realised that it was a _soul_.

"More like ten years of nightmare." He muttered, ignoring Hermione's look of compassion and focusing his eyes on the tiny gothic print. " '… _a Dementor's aura is supposed to bring up the worst memories up to the surface, so that the beast could feast on the misery and pain of its victims. Studies have shown that prolonged exposure destroys one's ability to feel joy, to the point that an Ecstasy Elixir has little to no effect, and renders the flesh numb to the warmth of even Fiendfyre. It comes to the point that the body shuts down, locking the victim's mind in an ever-ending nightmare until the soul is ripe with corruption, which the Dementor favours over the purest souls. Souls that had been tainted or mutilated, as observed by less civilised circles, succumb quicker to the corruption whether it has been healed a millennia or a minute ago – there is a running debate between those who believe that pure souls are the sign of strong people and those who favour the opinion that they simply have no experience of life beyond innocence and naivety. Are Dementors attracted to pain, or simply to souls that have felt the strongest?_ ' Urg, and you told me this doesn't belong to the Restricted Section?"

Hermione looked doubtful, a little green in the face. Then she nodded to herself and gestured for him to give her the book. "I think I'll ask Madam Pince about it."

Harry looked at her in horror and brought the book closer to his chest. It disgusted him a little, considering its content, but he had to make his point.

"And have it taken away before you can read it? Hermione, do you feel alright?"

Hermione blinked, _finally_ thought things through and blushed a little.

"I might be a little tired." She admitted, before frowning. "Now, give it to me and go look for more. I should be done with it by dinner."

Harry sighed. He wouldn't have thought twice about Hermione's reaction if it had been about some cursed object (now that he thought about it, should he go back and fetch the sword? Or the diary? He'd probably have to warn Riddle about it beforehand, because the ghost's knee-jerk reaction when surprised was to hurt him), but a book? Something had been wrong.

…he should probably tell her to research Occlumency, just in case. Her brain deserved to be called a National Treasure (or a Hogwarts Treasure, at the very least) and Harry didn't know what mind manipulations would do to her. Not that he wouldn't cherish her company if she lost her mind, but Hermione took a lot of pride in her intelligence – loosing the slightest bit of her mind… it would not be pretty.

Not for her, not for him, not for the rest of the world (and let's laugh nervously at the culprits who'd burn in Hell).


	15. Chapter 13 : Third Begining

_Hello. Oh my, one month later! I am ashamed of myself._

 _Really, I am. Just notice how some parts of this chapter are hastily put togheter and glossed over, others highly inspired from canon and even more that go in lenghts to say nothing and that make me think 'what the f*ck?!' when I read it the second time. Maybe I was hungry?_

 _So_ _( **WARNING** , I suppose?)_ _, you'll notice a few things in the following text, one of which is that I did not butcher Hagrid's words with the man's accent (because it annoys me when I'm trying to read it/write it). Another is that Harry is being mean (as usual) and foul-mouthed, a third one is a probably over-simplified religious story (I mean no offence), and the fourth one... well, there's only one way to say it._

 _I destroyed the canon class schedule (what little there was of it, anyway). I put the one I will use at the bottom, for those interested, and I will try to follow it. Let us have a minute of silence for the unfortunate Canon Schedule._

 _..._

 _Well, don't let me keep you any longer! Please enjoy this belated chapter of Of Memory and Scar._

Disclaimer : I don't own Harry Potter.

* * *

Monday morning came too quickly for Harry's taste. It seemed as if Sunday had passed in the blink of an eye, leaving his nervous self to try and not show his unwillingness to go to Hagrid's class. Hermione had not succeed at convincing Hagrid to share his plans when they had visited him with Ron last evening (before he had realised that Harry was out of the school building, which… wow. Now he was a prisoner at Hogwarts too) so they were running blind. For the moment, at least, because Harry was sure he'd manage to pass through Hagrid's barriers if the man was properly distracted or drunk enough.

Nothing too unusual, in a way. And Hermione certainly never protested when he used this strategy with Hagrid, though that might only be because she was an information hoarder of Riddle's calibre – information always won out against her morals, something he would never stop taking advantage of.

He was a good friend like that.

Still, it was with a queasy stomach that he made his way to Hagrid's hut, listening with half an ear to what Ron was saying – something about Malfoy? – and keeping an eye on Hermione's face. Just like the rest of the Third Years accompanying them, they had their monster book tied up and growling under their arm, Harry's a little blackened from that candle that had _oh-so-accidentally_ fell on the furry cover five seconds after the beast of a book had bitten him.

It had yowled a little before Harry had managed to extinguish the fire (some ten minutes later, but he had not dared to let it burn longer in case that the text got damaged and Riddle got on his case about it once he stopped finding it funny), but at least it had learnt its lesson: it never bit him ever again.

"Come on, hurry!" He suddenly heard, pulling his attention away from his memories. Hagrid was standing at the door of his home, dead ferrets hanging on his shoulder and Fang at his feet. He was beaming at the students, but there was nothing unusual there. "Three, six, nine, twelve, fifteen… okay, everyone's here. Follow me, class is going to happen this way!"

Harry hesitated when he realised that they were heading toward the Forest – and there was nothing in there that he wanted to see from up close, never mind learn about (unless it was how to kill and avoid them, of course). Even unicorns… they had _horns_ , and it certainly wasn't purely aesthetic. He'd rather not be skewered so early in the morning (or at all, now that he thought about it).

It was a relief when Hagrid stayed at the border, leading them toward an area surrounded by a waist-tall wooden fence. The twins would probably have known about what lived in there, curious as they were, and Harry decided right there and then to ask the prankster duo about what other creatures lived on Hogwarts' land. If only so that Harry could learn to defend himself if one ever escaped and attacked him (he wasn't going to chance it, what with his shitty luck and everything else that seemed to enjoy ruining his day).

"Everyone near the barrier!" Hagrid ordered loudly. "You wouldn't want not to see them properly! So, first, open your books page…"

"How do we do that?" A cold voice asked above the murmurs of panic and Harry really should not have been surprised to recognize Draco Malfoy as the speaker. The blond had always found Hagrid disgusting and the fact that the man was someone Harry liked had probably only fuelled his animosity. If he had not been annoyed at the blond for simply existing and the one spoken to had not been Hagrid, he would have approved of the question and belittling tone used.

Because, honestly, _what had Hagrid been thinking_? It took setting the thing on fire to make it behave and even then it would still shake when Harry tried to read it! And even Hermione, _Hermione_ , had not lectured him too much when he had explained why his book had burnt fur!

A flashback to the previous day's conversation with Hermione invade his mind and his horror melt into resignation. Yes, he knew what Hagrid had been thinking. He had probably seen the book, found it endearing in his own way and judged it harmless from his own experience (the book had probably gnawed on a finger or two, causing Hagrid to deem it affectionate), never realising that it wouldn't be the case with everyone.

 _…_ _if a dragon can't hurt him, why would he think that it could hurt the rest of us?_

Hagrid probably thought the Ministry regulations of magical creatures had been written by wussies, the Gryffindor that he was not capable to differentiate precaution from cowardice (it was a vice of the House of Lions he had long given up as a battle lost in advance, preferring to take advantage of such a belief instead of correcting it). If only they knew how 'fearless' Harry truly was…

He didn't act in spite of his fears, which was the true meaning of courage – there was always a stronger, more terrible fear pushing him toward the most promising path, like choosing a bullet to the brain instead of being electrocuted to death.

And now he was thinking morbid thoughts again – something that was an habit he wasn't sure he liked. Sure, it made sarcasm all that more interesting, and people reacted beautifully whenever he spoke his thoughts out loud, but it couldn't be good for his mental health, right?

"What?" Hagrid said, which Malfoy took as an invitation to sound even more condescending when repeating his question. "You mean… hasn't anyone opened their book?"

Some people shook their heads, others (he meant Slytherins) simply looked at the man with expressions that spoke of condescension and arrogance. Crabbe and Goyle simply looked ahead with dumb looks, as if thinking _'what book?'_ and trying to remember what a book was. Harry even saw Goyle frown quizzically, which was a sign of the apocalypse _indeed_ – the baboonguard was trying to make use of his _brain_.

Harry wasn't sure a starving zombie would want a bite, so the Slytherin was probably safe on that point – Hermione, on the other hand… Her brain was probably the zombie-equivalent of treacle tart drown in fudge and butterscotch with sprinkles on top and a side of brownie-flavoured ice cream.

…and now he was thinking about brains covered with ice cream and sprinkles. He blamed it on the Dementors, and maybe a little on Riddle – though the latter had yet to really hurt him since he had woken up in the infirmary, but that didn't excuse all the connection-abuse from before. Still, Riddle was creepy and terrifying and certainly not the cause of morbid and cannibalistic thoughts. The teenage Dark Lord had _class_ , after all.

"I opened mine." Harry decided to say in a sheepish voice, half to get out of his current brain tangent and half to cheer Hagrid up. He effortlessly got the book to open by pulling at the cover, shyly showing the result to Hagrid. "But there was a bit of an accident involving fire, so I think a few spells broke. He's not exactly lively anymore."

"A bit of an accident, my eye." He heard Hermione mutter under her breath, causing him to fight a smirk. Hermione's commentary was always interesting to hear.

His book whimpered as the class looked at it thoughtfully, then at their own that were obvious to their fate. Hagrid was wearing a saddened look, before taking Hermione's book (making Ron look disappointed) and ripping off the tape keeping it close. The _Monster Book of Monsters_ barely had the time to growl before a thick finger ran on its spine, making it shiver and gurgle happily before opening docilely in his hand.

"You need to stroke them." Hagrid then explained, showing Hermione's book for reference.

"Oh, how silly we've all been!" Harry heard Malfoy exclaim in fake realisation. He didn't turn to watch him sneer – he didn't exactly want any more of Malfoy taking place in his memory, where much more important things could be stored there. Like Crookshank cleaning his butthole. "We should have stroked them! Why didn't we guess!"

"I-I thought that they were funny." Hagrid stuttered, his enthusiasm for his first class visibly leaving him.

"Oh, tremendously funny!" Malfoy just had to speak again and Harry realised that he had heard his annoying voice enough for the day. And if _he_ had enough, then Riddle was about to loose it – and Harry'd suffer for it, so it was better to act preventively. "Really witty, giving us bo–ARGH!"

Discreetly slipping his wand back into his wand holster, Harry mould his face to look as surprised as everyone when the pureblood wizard suddenly lost his balance and fell on his face in the muddy ground. The rest of the Slytherins looked stunned, before Malfoy's sycophant number 1 (a.k.a. Pansy Parkinson) shrieked in horror and almost threw herself to the ground to help him up. Crabbe and Goyle only looked at their leader with confusion, as if asking why he had gone and fallen to the dirty ground.

Harry snickered with the rest of the Gryffindors (bar Hermione, of course, who was looking at him suspiciously – oops?) as Malfoy looked up and spat out dirt. The blond hurried back to his feet, pushing Parkinson's hands away with a disgusted grimace adorning his mud-covered face.

Personally, Harry thought that Malfoy had never looked as good as he currently did with most of his face concealed with dirt and twigs in his hair. Sure, he was hardly ever good-looking, but Harry now had Riddle as reference for people's facial pleasantness – many people had been demoted to 'ordinary' or downright 'ugly' with the Slytherin Heir to compare to.

Only Hermione had survived at 'pretty'. Considering that he had spent a whole fucking day at the Leaky Cauldron with nothing else to do than compare people's physiques and that he had been growing weary and tired of the subject after only two hours of pondering, it was probably due to their friendship that she had not fallen more.

The following days had been used to grade people's talents and overall usefulness, as per Riddle's orders. Harry had not been surprised that beauty had been one of Riddle's criteria for the 'people to make use of' category.

…and now he had missed something and Ron and Hermione were pulling him closer to the fence. Hagrid was beaming up at them, a _nd where had those hippogriffs come from?!_

"Now, first thing to know about hippogriffs is that they're really proud." Hagrid declared in what he had probably hoped was a Teacher Voice TM, but Harry could still hear his childish enthusiasm in his tone. Not that he could blame him, really, hippogriffs were even more handsome in reality than in the book – or that might just be Harry's love of flying animals speaking. "They will attack at the first perceived insult, so I warn you to be on your best behaviour around them."

Harry looked around to see if everyone was listening – nope, most Gryffindors were entranced with 'the cool/scary horse-birds' and Malfoy's little group of followers were busy reminiscing about their figurehead's most recent mud bath. His diverted attention fortunately caught Hermione's eye (probably so that he wouldn't curse another of their schoolmates during class) and she noticed the same as him.

As her duty as a teacher's pet and Hagrid's friend, she decided to intervene.

"Hagrid, they're not listening." Harry's best friend said in a hushed tone at the first opportunity she got, which was two minutes later ; Hagrid needed to breath once in a while, even in the middle of enthusiastic speech about the creatures he so loved.

The giant man looked at his class, saw the glossy-eyed lions (cue look of pride and understanding) and the few inattentive snakes (cue scowl and glare).

Was it just him, or could anyone else see some favouritism happening in the near future? Not that Harry would ever refuse being the target of such a thing (some respite after the sour Potion Master and stern Transfiguration Professor would certainly be nice), but he'd rather not if it meant having to listen to the Slytherins whine about it. For some absurd reason, Gryffindor tended to share most of its classes with the green and silver House – shouldn't the teachers have complained about the multiple assassination attempts thorough the years?

Because what else was throwing unlisted ingredients into someone else's potion but an assassination attempt? Potions were dangerous and it was only luck that had kept Neville from dying whenever his cauldrons exploded. Well, that and Snape's quick handling of…

Right. Snape. He had almost forgotten about Snape's character. Never mind then.

"Everyone, now LISTEN UP!" Hagrid ordered a bit louder than he normally was, which caused Harry to wince – _ow ow ow_ , his _sensitive_ ears! "This class is not for those who have no interest in learning! If you can't listen to what I say or respect the creatures I show you, then begone! Hippogriffs need a special kind of care and if you hurt them because you didn't listened to me, you won't be getting any more practice work for the rest of your Hogwarts career!"

Coming from Hagrid, who was bigger than most adults, the glare that accompanied his rant was rather terrifying. It reminded Harry of when Vernon had insulted Dumbledore in the gamekeeper's presence, of his over-protective obsession over Norbert and of his absolute faith in Aragog's harmlessness.

Hagrid, Harry had quickly realised, was a caring soul. The only way to make his gentle personality disappear was to insult Dumbledore, behave in a way that Dumbledore wouldn't approve of, speak about Slytherins that Dumbledore had no good word for (Harry suspected that talking of Riddle instead of Voldemort would make him more than yell at someone in anger) and, apparently, not showing an appropriate amount of respect and adoration to Hagrid's favourite dangerous creatures.

Of course, Hagrid wasn't the brightest bulb in the box, so for him to notice someone's disrespect would mean that said someone was rather obvious and crude about it. Which might be one more reason why Hagrid didn't like Slytherins – he probably couldn't tell if they were being overly insulting or if they were just teasing.

Which, well… Harry was slowly realising that a Slytherin's teasing only happened with people you deemed your friends. Harry himself only teased Hermione, or maybe the twins sometimes, but could he really count as a snake? He _had_ convinced the Hat not to Sort him as one and he humbly admitted that one of his most prized qualities was his resourcefulness, but still…

Pinching himself helped his attention from wavering any more from Hagrid's class – up to the point where he volunteered to be the first student to be introduced to an hippogriff, then he didn't need any more pinching. Since he was probably one of the few who could see the creatures' talons and think 'meh, at least they're not poisoned', he had decided to jump on the opportunity to be stupidly fearless to compensate for his 'incident' with the Dementors. His classmates would be properly impressed by his lack of self-preservation _and_ he wouldn't need to face another Basilisk to do it. It was a win-win situation, really.

Besides, _winged_ equines with _falcon_ heads. Hippogriffs would never be Hedwig, but he would not deny the beauty and grace they had as creatures of the sky.

His smile might have grown a _tiny itty bit_ unhinged when Hagrid told him to mount Buckbeak so that they could fly together, which was just like a surprise serving of a Hermione-brain delicacy. He felt Riddle glare daggers at him as he obeyed his enthusiastic teacher and he caught Hermione looking oddly at him, so he turned his grin into an innocent one – only for it to fall in started fright when the hippogriff _launched itself_ into flight-mode.

He shouted in surprise, clinging to the hippogriff's glossy feathers with all his might not to fall, though he recovered quickly.

Because he had seen Riddle's furious face as he was forced to follow behind him as if on a leash – _if I'm on a broom flying fifty feet above the ground, will you trail behind me like a kite or be able to stay on the broom?_

Well, they had their answer. And it was a fucking hilarious one.

* * *

What was less fun was the Potion class during their third period. What with him being in the same room as Severus Snape for a prolonged amount of time – and they were in a room that wasn't as vast as the Great Hall, so it meant that they were sharing breathing space.

Breathing in the same air that had not only mixed with (probably toxic) potion fumes, but had visited the insides of Snape's body through his nose and dirty mouth – if not other extremities as well, _fucking_ _please, no!_ – was a disgusting reality he had to suffer through each years.

It gave him the same feeling he had had when he had realised that he had nearly drowned in a _public pool_ , where the water had washed against many bodies and had diluted the piss and shit and sweat and _dirt_ accumulated on their skins. It meant that he had swallowed some of it, had taken in those elements inside of him on top of bathing into it – so sorry, are you dry-heaving already? Because he was.

… at least vomit was less disturbing than public pool water. And tastier than potions.

Non-human wastes and insects didn't bothered him as much. Actually, he didn't have any problems with the sight of decayed animal corpses filled with worms and covered in flies, or the sticky and oily feeling of rotting food under parts of his body. He'd probably also have no problem touching a stranger's long-dead body.

Petunia's unconscious form? Please, he really needed to Obliviated that memory from his mind sometime soon. Still, it was probably her mere personality that turned her body so disgusting, just like it was Snape being who he was that turned the air they had to share dirty.

All that to say that the Potion class left him with the strong desire to take a long shower and somehow disinfect his lungs, mouth and nose. It was nothing unusual, though, so he pushed the urge to the back of his mind and continued on.

Lunch followed peacefully, with a brief weird moment where Hermione gushed about her Ancient Runes class despite having clearly been with them at the time (Harry wondered then how she had planned to keep her Time-Turner a secret, when it was obvious that she was actually at two places at the same time – but he guessed that if a chit like the now-Fourth Year Ravenclaw had been able to do it, then Hermione would have little to no issue with all the secrecy). Then it was time for Herbology, where they spent the whole period looking over the syllabi for the first term.

Nothing interesting happened until Defence, though Harry didn't quite appreciated the Boggart. Not that he didn't laugh at the Snape-in-a-vulture-hat part of it – it had been _hilarious_ , only, just, you know. He had not liked the fact that a teacher had asked of them (fine, of _him_ ) to air their deepest fear to the whole school, because, rest assured, gossips like Lavender would have spread the news in no time. People would have pounced on the discovered weakness, to use it to better control him.

Riddle had looked _curious_ , for God's sake ( _scary!_ ). And put out when Lupin had stepped in front of Harry, though the balloon-thing had apparently humoured him enough that Harry got no teasing about his near loss. Harry figured he'd solve the mystery later, since he was just glad the man had not made him face the most atrocious fear he really didn't want anybody to know about, least of all himself.

He was very lucky to be Harry Potter. And that Harry Potter's fears were obviously not for his fellow little kids' eyes. Let's not make them wet the bed in fright for the next month, right?

His sentiment however didn't make him interrupt Ron when the redhead decided that the situation had been unjust and uncool and that Lupin shouldn't have kept Harry from facing the Boggart. All of the Weasley's arguments were promptly destroyed by a worried Hermione, who had made it her duty to force some common sense into his thick skull by explaining that Harry had experienced much scarier things than most of their schoolmates and surely Ron didn't want to see Voldemort appear in the middle of class?

"Well, it would've been nice to know how he looks like, you know?" Ron said after shivering in dread and looking over his shoulder, as if the Dark Lord was following them. Which he _was_ , a younger version of him anyway, but nobody but Harry needed to know that. "Nobody took any pictures of him during the war. Or if they did, they didn't survived."

Cue odd look from Hermione thrown at the redhead for his flippant tone when saying that, then another exasperated one at Harry, before looking up at the ceiling in a way that reminded Harry of his primary teachers when praying for patience.

"Well, you could ask Harry, you know." Harry's favourite bookworm remarked with a deliberate slow and condescending voice. "He _did_ see him a few times."

Harry made a face, somehow not appreciating the fact that he was being pushed into describing another guy's appearance _out loud_ because Hermione was being logical. He half-glared at the girl when Ron turned a hopeful face at him, before rolling his eyes as if good-naturally.

He'd much prefer to be doing… something else other than speak of Riddle's looks. Because if he spoke about Voldemort's disfigurement, _of course_ Hermione would realise that the teenage form had not looked like that and would demand details, because he _had_ admitted to seeing Riddle out of the diary.

"Well, Voldemort looks like a snake." He started hesitatingly, speaking softly so that other people wouldn't overhear him. "You know, red eyes with slit pupils, no ears, no lips, no nose – just two slits for nostrils – and he's so pale you can see the veins under his skin so it's almost like he has scales. That's all I could see, because he never really had a body when we met…"

Ron was looking a little bit green, but, as expected, Hermione was more pensive. Then she spoke.

"But the memory in the diary didn't look like that, did he? I mean… Oh, honestly, Ron! You can't really think that he was _born_ looking like a snake?"

The expression on Ron's face said that he pretty well _could_. Well, nobody had ever accused him of being overly intelligent.

"Really." The girl huffed, hugging her books tighter against her chest. "He was raised by muggles in the thirties, Harry said. People… they were not very accepting in that time. He would have either been killed him or been sold to a circus. Since he _wasn't_ , he probably mutilated himself on purpose, for the fear factor. Or the Dark Magic did it – I heard that some spells and rituals took their tolls on the witch or wizard who did them."

 _Like the action of splitting one's soul_ , Harry thought, before cringing. _Don't think about it, stop thinking about it, you're not thinking about it! Aaargh!_

His hand rose to rub his scar nonetheless, gaining some pity looks from his friend and minion. He scowled at them, moving his hand back into his school robes' left waist-level pocket.

"So, how did he looked?" Hermione insisted as they took yet another familiar turn – were they expected to _Divine_ the right path in this maze or something?!

"You know those overly handsome, noble-looking blokes that play the bastardly charming player role in afternoon dramas?" Harry asked, to which Hermione nodded hesitatingly. Ron just frowned, not understanding the technology reference, so Harry resigned himself to the full description. "Well, that's him. Wavy brown hair, pale skin, perfect nose – actually, imagine Lucifer's face and that's about it –, long-fingered hands, the whole elegant and perfect student looks. Oh, and red eyes. But I'm not sure if it's his real eye color or not."

"Oh." Hermione said, wide-eyed and blinking quickly.

"What's a Lucifier?" Ron asked, sounding like he was starting to get annoyed.

" _Lu-ci-fer_." Harry repeated, sounding eerily like Hermione, but he didn't want to go in full details about Riddle's face – the guy was _right next to him_ and was _listening_ with an amused smirk. Like Hell did Harry wanted to boost his ego. "You know the Christian's God?" An hesitant nod. "Well, the guy created a whole lot of angels before he created humans. The second one is said to be the brightest of them all, the most beautiful of God's creations and his name _is_ Lucifer. But he fell from Heaven – that's like the angel's home – and he became the Devil. Apparently."

"Okay." The redhead nodded. "Muggles are weird, though. The Devil wasn't an angel – still, what does it have to do with Voldemort's face?"

"What Harry is saying, Ron," Hermione _finally_ came to his rescue and he looked gratefully at her, "is that Lord Voldemort was very handsome when he was young."

"Like Lockhart?" Ron asked suspiciously.

Harry's face blanked when he felt his scar tingle. Oh motherfucking sick asshole… Riddle had _not_ appreciated the comparison.

"Actually, Lockhart looks like an old and sick baboon next to him." Harry said quickly, scrunching his nose when he realise what he had said. "Urgh, did I just said that? It's not as if Lockhart was any good-looking to begin with… And where the Hell is that classroom!"

Very unsubtle change of conversation, but it worked all the same. They finally had to ask one of the (stupidest) portraits for the right path, but they did arrived in time for their Divination class.

Watching Hermione getting more and more flustered as Trewlaney spewed her predictions was rather funny, and he felt that he was going to enjoy the free show on top of the class.

Harry did not appreciated being told that he was going to die soon, however.

* * *

 _So, what is between parenthesis is the classes Harry doesn't have and the words in capitals is because I wanted some diversity (and it made it easier to read)._

Monday : BREAKFAST, Care of Magical Creatures/(Ancient Runes), (Muggle Studies), Potions, LUNCH, Herbology, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Divination/(Arithmancy), Charms, DINNER

Tuesday : BREAKFAST, Potions, Charms, Transfiguration, LUNCH, BREAK, History of Magic, BREAK, Herbology, DINNER

Wednesday : BREAKFAST, Divination/(Arithmancy), Transfiguration, Herbology, LUNCH, Defence Against the Dark Arts, (Muggle Studies), Potions, History of Magic, DINNER

Thursday : BREAKFAST, (Muggle Studies), Herbology, Defence Against the Dark Arts, LUNCH, Charms, Transfiguration, Care of Magical Creatures/(Ancient Runes), History of Magic, DINNER

Friday : BREAKFAST, Charms, Potions, History of Magic, LUNCH, Care of Magical Creatures/(Ancient Runes), Defence Against the Dark Arts, Divination/(Arithmancy), Transfiguration, DINNER


	16. Chapter 14 : Friday

_Well, hello there!_

 _See, this new chapter? It didn't want to be written. Worse than that, it didn't want to **exist**. I forced myself to write it, little by little, but, as you see, it took a while. It sets the year in its context, introduces a few things I wanted to try to play with... And it's done, finally!_

 _ **Warnings** : mentions of **gore** , implications and acts of **torture** physical and mental, sarcasm, vague mental issues (I'm no professional of the mind), and **morbid** thoughts._

 _I do not own Harry Potter, and please enjoy the story!_

* * *

The first week of school passed quickly, with little of interest happening other than some snarky comments made (mostly thought) by yours truly to alleviate the boredom, though the few bits of information the teachers had decided they were old enough to know (which wasn't much, mind you) were enough to stir his curiosity once or twice. Homework piled up, especially in Hermione's case, and Harry started the habit of going out to fly with his beautiful Hedwig every day at lunch, both to escape the scrutiny he was the target of and to amuse himself with Riddle's private humiliation (he didn't stop despite the nightmares the furious teen gave him in return, considering them a fair price to pay for his daily personal show).

Sure, he had needed to promise to stay on the school grounds, there was always a few staff members 'coincidentally' desiring to take a walk when he took out his broom and lunch time was not the moment of the day he would have preferred for a fly. He had actually first gone after dinner on Monday, long before curfew, but McGonagall had yelled herself hoarse for nearly twenty minutes about his idiocy and lack of self-preservation and what if Black had _attacked_ him?! It had ended up with him loosing twenty points (not that it mattered much in the long run – the Weasley twins had also threatened a school-wide prank during breakfast if anyone dared to complain about it, so he was safe from well-meaning lions wanting to 'speak' about his point-loosing behavior) and a promise that he'd get a detention the next time he 'did something so stupid'.

So he was now flying during lunch time and nursing a bit more resentment toward the woman, but it was either that or be stared at while everyone spoke of that first Prophet article about Black probably being out for his head, so the decision was rather easy to make.

No article after that first one had spoken of suspicions about Black's agenda or of the Potters' relations to the man, so Harry was convinced someone had kindly told the newspaper to shut up, not that he particularly cared. If Black eventually decided to make a detour and remove the unfortunate writer of that first article from the world of livings, then Harry was all for it – it would mean that he would be coming for Harry _later_ , and who was he to protest?

Not that he thought that the Ministry was worried about the _Daily Prophet_ 's employees – no, he (and by 'he', he meant 'they', as Riddle had spent _hours_ ranting about how things were better run and better done and _just simply better_ in his time where Dumbledore wasn't Headmaster and the Minister wasn't a weakling like Fudge) suspected that it was more to save face. You didn't humanized people you wanted Kissed and showing the background of an individual did exactly that – the mass was also less likely to protest Black's terrible almost-death if he was said to be someone _deserving_ such a fate. You know, like an _insane_ monster.

Not that anyone who stayed twelve years in the hellhole that was the Dementor's nest would be anything remotely close to sane, but Harry just figured that some people needed it spelled out for them… like, the Crabbes and Goyles of the world.

But Black wasn't all people were whispering about, or not-quite-whispering in some cases. His home situation and Vernon's 'accident' were favoured subjects to gossip about, people wondering how come no one had realised how badly he was treated at 'home' (Dumbledore had, hadn't he? But only Hermione had cared to try and do something, and only the Weasley twins had realised how bad it truly was), why no one had done anything to help him (because _Dumbledore_ ), why he had never told anyone (he _had_ , people had used his dislike of his relatives against him last year, didn't they remember? But again, most of these people had a selective memory), and _you know, Harry, we're here for you if you need to talk_ (Ha. Haha. Right).

Sometimes, when he was tired, the ambient stupidity was enough to make him laugh once or twice. The rest of the time was spent praying that they wouldn't annoy Riddle until he lost control of himself and caused Harry needless pain. Considering that the teen ghost _himself_ had admitted to not having a lot of talent in controlling his emotions and that Harry had learnt early in their 'partnership' that he had a hair trigger for his temper, very few prayers actually got answered.

He wasn't all that pious, though. He had no faith to waste throwing around in case a god actually overheard him – he had plenty of whining to send their way, however, as he had learnt how much a better idea it was to complain to beings that didn't withhold food if you acted ungrateful.

Still, it wasn't as if Riddle had ever needed to control his emotions before he got stuck in a book – just masking them all had fooled people nicely enough and his poker face was truly an impressive (scary) thing. Or was it because he didn't have a body and thus decided which expression he made? Maybe it was simply a habit born from his years as the 'Mudblood of Slytherin'?

Not that Riddle had told him as much, but with a name like his there was no mistaking him for a pureblood. Harry himself had barely escaped the snake pit and its mini dark minions/people and he'd rather not think of what would have happened to him had the vanquisher of Voldemort been Sorted into Slytherin. Not only would the world have thought him the Dark Lord reborn, but he would probably have been smothered with his own pillow by his housemates within the first month.

Some of Lord Voldemort's followers, those who were still free and had children in Slytherin, would probably have helped smuggle poisons or weapons in and out of the school if it meant Harry's death.

Riddle had had none of that notoriety, but he had also had no one to protect him. Harry had Dumbledore, as hypocritical as it made the man, and he had lucked out and connected with Hermione and the twins. The Slytherin Heir barely trusted Harry and only out of necessity, so it meant that Riddle went through Hell _alone_.

Honestly? It scared Harry a little (a lot).

Because Tom Riddle, despite everything thrown at him, had _survived_.

* * *

As the annual First Friday Party was about to start, properly distracting Ron for the evening (Hermione was buried in homework, so he didn't have to worry about her noticing him gone anytime soon), Riddle told him to gather his things and leave the common room. Harry had noticed that Riddle had been waiting for such an opportunity, but he _was_ a bit perplexed to be ordered to walk three times before a wall thinking about needing a place to relax. He still followed the instructions to the letter and inwardly prepared himself to congratulate Riddle for successfully loosing his mind after fifty years of miraculous resistance, but instead, very nearly proclaimed his adoration of the older boy when doors appeared on the wall and opened to a room _perfect_ for relaxation.

Only nearly, though, because Harry wasn't going to give the teen who grew up to become _Voldemort_ any more ammunition against him.

The room looked as if it had been taken from an old Arabic story, then remodelled randomly by an enthusiastic individual. Painted primarily in gold, green and blue shades, the walls were covered by thick patterned drapes and the ground in fluffy cushions and rugs; then there were the low tables covered with shiny bobbles, the further left corner of the room filled with stuffed armchairs and a L-shaped couch and what looked like a large stone spa bath at Harry's immediate right.

It was, in one word, an heterogeneous mess of comfort materials. Harry immediately felt at home.

"This explains so much about you." He heard Riddle murmur as the older teen took in the room's appearance.

Harry guessed that Riddle meant the clutter. He didn't appreciated.

"Shut up." He huffed, before entering the room with two strong steps. "I bet _you_ would've made something like the Slytherin's common room, with skulls, snakes, stone and leather everywhere."

"And pray tell how you know how the Slytherin common room looks like?" Riddle's voice was amused and Harry froze with one feet in the air.

Before he could realise that Riddle couldn't really put him in trouble even if he admitted to the infraction (that said infraction could even become bragging material, should he feel like it), Harry felt something knock into his back. Unbalanced, he fell to the ground, said something following suit.

Then the 'something' clung to his body with cold limbs and harsh breathing sounds filled his ears. It took him two point eight seconds to realise that it was _Riddle_ who was crushing him in a desperate and trembling grip, who was breathing heavily like he had been drowning and Harry was the last floating ring in the world. His scar was warm, but not uncomfortably so, and Harry didn't move, didn't protest. His brain couldn't comprehend the situation, because _was Riddle really **hugging** him?_

He didn't know what to do. He was very much out of his comfort zone – _Riddle was touching him! Harry didn't like being touched! Mayday! Mayday!_ – but he was also stunned, his body was so tensed it felt like he would break a limb if he tried to move. He wasn't sure if he was breathing anymore, or if his heart was even beating.

Then his stomach tightened uncomfortably and took the matter out of his hands, causing him to throw Riddle off him and quickly crawl toward the bucket that had suddenly appeared, grabbing it just in time to empty his stomach of that night's dinner.

He didn't like to be touched. Surprise glomping and steel-hard clinging were _not_ appreciated, but Harry was a bit surprised at the intensity of his own reaction – if he could handle Gryffindors being overly friendly when he was hurt and weak, why not an homicidal Slytherin when he was fine?

…maybe the issue was that he had been attacked from behind. With no warning, and thinking that Riddle was still immaterial, he had been shocked still and terrified, until he had realised what was really happening. Immediately thinking that he'd been assaulted by a third unknown party was perfectly normal, all things considered, but his body had probably not appreciated going from one extreme emotional state right into another.

Or maybe dinner had just not gotten along with his stomach and had wanted out. He really should stop taking himself so seriously, he'd never get anything done otherwise.

The silence stretched out, leaving the two of them to get their bearings back in peace. Eventually, they were both back on their feet, clothes straightened out (Riddle) and mouth wiped (Harry). They shared a look and wordlessly agreed to never mention this ever again, their shared moment of weakness not exactly forgotten but deliberately overlooked.

(He still wondered how it maddening it must have been not to be able to touch anything for fifty years, especially for an anti-social creature like Riddle to react so strongly when finally touched – still, he buried those thoughts deep down, right next to the other realisations he had had but never wanted to acknowledge.)

"You have one hour to complete your homework." Riddle eventually said, before walking in large strides toward a door Harry could've sworn had not been there two seconds earlier. The magic room was going from awesome to freaky rather abruptly… "We will then work on your Occlumency. Excuse me."

The door closed behind him, leaving Harry to stare at it in annoyed confusion.

"As if I could finish them all in _one_ hour." Harry muttered petulantly, before scrunching up his nose and glaring at the door. "And I ain't obeying you like a dog either!"

No matter that doing homework right now would be a good idea – but he doubted that he'd be able to do more than half the Charms essay due on Monday before Riddle returned. He turned on his heels, walked toward a pile of books he had not noticed earlier and kicked it down.

He imagined Hermione twitching in her dorm as she somehow felt his disrespect for the written world, smirking despite himself as he made a mental note to be on his guard around her in case she had really sensed it. Her Third Eye might be closed to the future, but, if there was one thing she'd be able sense, it would be something like this. Well, _that_ and Harry hiding something important from her.

…he would probably drive her paranoid someday. Maybe showing her this room and its endless supply of knowledge would buy him some goodwill? Not right now, of course, so maybe the next year? Knowing Hermione, she would probably insist on starting to study for their O.W.L.s at the start of their fourth year. Having _this_ room to help her study might very well help her relax, in a learn-not-study way.

Craning his head and pushing books around with his foot to read the titles, he frowned as none sounded remotely interesting. Sure, there was a book about spell theory, but it was three inches thick and flicking it open with the tip of his shoe informed him that it was written manually in a very tiny script.

Hermione would have loved it, assuredly. Harry? He felt the irresistible need to do something else coming by just looking at the old tome, so he closed it and dropped his body into the nearest chair. A wooden desk appeared right in front of him, a quill lying innocently on its surface next to a long slim stone – the perfect tool to weight down the parchment and keep it from going back into its rolled up shape while he was still writing.

Grinning wildly, Harry pulled a roll of parchment from his bag and put his inkwell on the desk. There was something he had been waiting to do ever since the previous year, but he had not fancied having Riddle around when he put the first touches to his plan.

After all, he had a dozen or so of bullies to take revenge upon for the hexes casted at his defenceless back during the previous year. It was unfortunate that he couldn't claim being the perpetrator behind the upcoming _accidents_ , or even hint at it, but he didn't need anymore scrutiny. Never mind that being caught doing this would open the door for suspicions about Vernon's death, and it was something he could never allow – not until some time had passed and it became such a _ludicrous_ (gods, Riddle was rubbing off on him! He was starting to use those snobbish words!) idea for Harry to be a murderer.

…or something like that. As long as he didn't end in prison or something as inhospitable, he would probably be fine.

But now, he had this perfect idea to get back at Ilda Humphrey…

* * *

Occlumency lessons were a pain, mostly because Harry had zero inclination for the subject – his brain was too jumbled (his recent meet-and-great with the Dementors not having helped _at all_ ), failed compulsions spells had turned his thoughts into a mess and his most unhappy memories were repressed so crudely that bringing them up again had only added to his traumatized mind despite being necessary for the learning of Mind Magic. Riddle always seemed to comment on how unnatural Harry's sanity was, that he shouldn't be so socially capable, especially not with Voldemort's Horcrux influencing his behaviour.

Because the piece of soul was _not_ dormant. Had never been dormant, either. It was just so small, so diminished, that it couldn't manifest through its host like Riddle and his diary-prison. All it did was make his thoughts darker or offer some instinct-like guidance in Harry's everyday life – which Riddle thought was counter-productive, considering that it only led to Harry biting more than he could chew, but then what could they expect from a fragment of an insane soul? The only benefits of the horcrux, so far, had been the ability to speak Parseltongue and the fact that it had made Harry 'too important to kill'.

But it had also possibly had a part in tying Riddle's dying spirit to him. Which, in turn, had allowed Harry to discover that he was an horcrux to begin with. Said discovery had led to the two young wizards to realise Dumbledore's true intentions about the Boy-Who-Lived and, while he was very happy to know of those beforehand so that he could prepare against them, it did make his life more stressful.

Because Dumbledore didn't want a hero, a Champion of Good and Light, like Harry had suspected. The old wizard wanted a _martyr_ and had been conditioning his pawn to be self-sacrificing through labours and tasks that somehow involved Voldemort.

Riddle had been furious when he had found the memory of Quirrellmort feeding on unicorn blood, a subject that had, surprisingly, taken one month to pop up again in their conversations – Harry had learnt why when he had fainted again, as Riddle had apparently been forgetting his other self's failure on purpose. Once he had woken up, he had given the circumstances of that detention to a steel-face Riddle; anything, really, to distract himself from his painful scar.

But apparently, sending a group of first years in the Forbidden Forest with a member of the staff that couldn't legally use magic, after sunset especially, was simply not done in the forties at Hogwarts. When you didn't even know proper defensive magic, throwing you in a den of magic-resistant beasts could be called attempted murder and/or deliberate endangerment of Hogwarts' charges.

Who would have thought – Malfoy had been right at the time, to complain about the dangers of the forest. Innocent little First Year Harry had simply thought that the forest couldn't be _that bad_ , but… oh, look! Acromantula! Centaurs! Poisonous pollen and sap! Imps! Unicorns ( _the horns, damn it!_ )! Man-eater plants! Murderous mud pits! And more trees of the Whomping Willow's unfriendly relatives!

Oh, and werewolves. But, apparently, those were people outside of the full moon. And Harry would dare to hope that the staff were smart enough not to send non-werewolves students in the forest during the full moon – just, you know, in precaution? They _did_ know what that was, did they?

Wait, no, Snape was a teacher. Hagrid too, now. And they had had Lockhart. How come had no one died yet? No one important, at least.

"Focus, Potter." He heard a dry voice say and suddenly there was a rush of air filling his lungs, making him cough violently – he had not even realised that Riddle had made him stop breathing. The other teen was a _sadistic_ teacher. "You were turning blue just now."

Not quite capable of speech yet, Harry glared. Once more, he had the impression that he was trying to intimidate a snake with kitten claws – it was a feeling that had recently grown very familiar, unfortunately.

"Screw… you…" Harry heaved between two breaths, his mouth dry as pain slowly receded from his lungs.

"Language." Riddle hummed, twirling his holly wand with his long pale fingers. Harry had given up the holly wand without many protests, having found another friend in his fir one – though it still stung that the holly wand had rejected him. For _Riddle_ of all people. "Beside, you are too young for such things."

Harry squinted. "I'm too young to swear?" A pause, during which Riddle raised an eyebrow and stared at him. "Are you feeling alright, Riddle? I've been swearing all summer, in case you haven't realised. Did having a body do something to your memory or something?"

There was another moment of silence, after which Riddle changed the subject with barely an hesitation. "Your mind is too wild to discipline properly, so you will probably never master Occlumency beyond a beginner's level. It does not mean, however, that you should not give our lessons all of your efforts. You are too easily distracted."

"I just forget that you're inside my mind." Harry repeated for what seemed to be the hundredth time.

"It is a part of the magic, Potter." Riddle almost snapped, looking irritated. "A master of Legillimency knows to hide their presence, cloaking the thoughts that would lead to their rejection from their victim's awareness and subtly working around memories and instincts to urge the brain to work for them. Your only advantage is your ability to think about multiple things at once, causing a Legillimens to work harder to get what they want since most would be used to people thinking in linear patterns. You… Your mind is so disorganised that you make connections where there are none to make, which would most possibly confuse an intruder. However, a true master of the Art will _not_ be duped for long. I myself have little issues with controlling your thoughts. The only difficulty I might encounter is making sure that you stay focused on what I want, and I assure you that even that is infinitesimal effort on my part to do so."

It took a moment before something clicked. Something he was rather certain wasn't what Riddle had meant.

"So I should find a way so that people won't find their way in my mind? Like, make it worse than it is now?" It sounded like a good idea. To him, anyway.

The horrified expression on Riddle's face said otherwise.

" _No!_ " The refusal was a little bit too strong for Riddle's usual attitude, borderline panicky if Harry was honest.

Which didn't suited the other at all, not that Harry thought that arrogance or sadistic bliss suited the older teen, because it didn't – who looked nice when being a sadist? Not that Riddle didn't look nice, he did, in a purely aesthetic and not-interested way, because Harry _didn't_ personally think that Riddle was pretty, it was just a neutral observa… Okay, stop. Just stop.

Moving on. Riddle was still speaking in that not-suitable-panicky way that Harry felt uneasy witnessing. Honestly. It was like seeing an Acromantula asking for hugs. _And meaning it_.

(Note to self : tell Ron about having had such a dream recently, just before going to bed. See the next morning if the redhead slept at all. Also : make sure Hagrid never hears about it, lest he got ideas)

"… _more unstable_? How do you expect to _stay_ _functional_ when your very mind will not work properly? And you wish to make it even _harder_ for yourself to deal with your _mess of a brain_? Occlumency is not only the art of blocking people from entering your mind! You are meant to occlude, to _close_ your mind and keep its content safe. With proper training, one might even hide reality from others – loosing sight of what is real and what is not _will not_ help anyone in this endeavour. Especially not _you_."

Harry blinked, then decided to act overly obtuse. Just because.

"I, like, understood five words of that." He told his Occlumency tutor and it wasn't even a lie – fancy words topped with _magical_ _theory_ never failed to make his interest disappear like ice cream in the sun and he eventually just stopped listening. "But I guess I now know that what I suggested was a bad idea."

Riddle twitched, much to Harry's pleasure. He could go to sleep later knowing that he did something good today.

"Occlumency is an important study." Riddle said in a deliberately soft voice. Harry had quickly realised that the other teen was rather talkative when teaching him and that he made an actual effort to be pleasant. It was weirdly... _nice_. "Your mind is not consonant with it, but you must still apply yourself. It is necessary if you wish to remain under the radar. As of right now, you are highly susceptible to Veritaserum. What do you think will happen if someone interrogates you with a truth potion? Or if someone slips a inhibition-removing brew in your glass? Potions, unlike compulsion spells and the likes, impose themselves on you instead of attempting to modify or confuse your personality or instincts. Potions will not slide off you once your mind proves too foreign and the spells die out because of incompatibility."

"And the only way to protect myself against such potions is to learn Occlumency." Harry deadpanned. At the warning spark of pain in his head, Harry huffed. "I can't be the only one who has this problem. Surely someone found another way? I mean, witches and wizards are lazy as a rule. The laziest one of them probably came up with something for someone like me."

There was a pause, one that informed Harry that Riddle _did_ , in fact, know of a different way to protect himself. Now was the time to appeal to the teenager's time-efficient sensibilities.

"We're wasting time trying to teach me something you said I would never really learn." He told the sixteen years old ghost. "I could be doing my homework right now, or finding protections against Dementor, or even learning new spells to fight Black for when he comes after me."

Riddle sighed and Harry inwardly cheered. Success! The teenage Dark Lord was about to tell him about the other methods! No more fucking after-session headaches, vertigos and nausea!

"You are too young for the other methods." Riddle eventually explained, finally leaning back in the elegant armchair he had pulled in front of Harry's fluffier one for their training session. "One I told you about already, but runic tattoos went out of fashion for a reason: there is a limited amount of skin available on the body and the possibility of loosing a limb and ending up with an incomplete and unstable design is an intimidating one. Some sequences are also incompatible with others and might even hamper the practice of some branches of magic, but the fact that those marks are visible and thus incriminating was the main reason for the diminished practice. You also cannot get one yet because you are still growing and the growth of mass and skin will affect the runes."

"Another way would be to enchant an object you would always carry on you, but those are unreliable as they are prone to breaking or getting corrupted by ambient magic and developing a completely different purpose – or, like the Weasley's car, it might gain sentience on its own after some time and get _moody_. A third way would be to craft a ritual, but those take _years_ to make, even for me, and they are not recommended for people under seventeen. Of course, there are always forbidden magics, but I would think that you would not want to bath for three days in human entrails while under the influence of a terror-inducing potion. Most people end up strangled with the guts some time before the three days end or simply insane, so I do not recommend it."

"Of course you'd know that." Harry muttered, not even bothering to react at the gruesome description. Dead organic matters were just dead organic matters after sleeping in them a few times, and Harry was way warier of a rat's corpse than a human's – the potential for diseases just wasn't the same.

Now, it wasn't to say that he wanted to make himself a few suits out of Vernon's skin. But did it changed anything for the one bathing if the guts were from human or not?

"So, even if you were to choose one of those alternative, in the meantime you still need protection." Riddle continued, ignoring his comment. "Enchanted objects would be a good idea if there was not a risk that you would be searched. Temporary antidotes are useless if you do not know which potion you will be fed and when. Occlumency is simply the best option for you right now, which means intensive mental training."

Harry wasn't to be defeated so easily. He gave Riddle his best bored expression and slouched in his armchair, throwing a leg over an armrest and ignoring the annoyed look that got him. Riddle wasn't one for bad postures.

"Isn't there some magic that would keep the runes from becoming distorted as I grow up?" Harry asked. "I mean, I heard there's a charm that makes rocks sing happy birthday. And if _that_ exists, then…"

Riddle smirked and suddenly Harry wished he could foresee when his own mouth would work against him and make him walk right into Riddle's traps.

"Well, that is something for _you_ to discover, is it not?"


	17. Interlude 3 : Albus Dumbledore

_Why, Hello! I almost got lost on my way here, so many things have changed since I was last here!_

 _Just kidding. (I'm on a sugar high, forgive me.)_

 _Also, sorry for the long wait, but University was calling and you just don't joke about that. I was also all angsty about not managing more than a few lines a week on the main story, so I was re-re-re-re-reading my notes, and you know what? I realised that I had, in fact, mentionned that Harry's mind was all messed up with Dumbledore's attempts at being God (how had I even forgotten, honestly!), and that I could totally work on that while attempting to trigger some inspiration (it half-worked?). I think you all know by now that I have very little appreciation for Dumbledore's character, other than it being easy to dislike him - and it's getting even clearer, just read ahead._

 _I really had fun writing this. If you read this with a mocking eye, it's just ( **WARNING** ) pure bashing, but my (lovely, wonderful, squeal-worthy) reviews showed that you might just enjoy this, so I decided to publish it. __I tried to make it tasteful, so tell me if I managed it?_

 _Anyway, have fun reading!_

 _ **Warning** : Delusions, amorality, child abuse, character bashing and, er, use of Original Characters and of a story I totally don't own._

* * *

Albus had a purpose – he had been born full of promises, but it had been his choices that had led to discovering what he wanted to do with his life. His choices that had led him to see that the world needed him.

In his youth, he had been showered with praises and admiration. It had led him to become an arrogant child, and then a self-righteous teen who believed that he was due everything good in the world. At the time, he had not yet understood that he had to work for these things he coveted, that nothing was as free as it appeared and that 'too good to be true' was indeed a thing.

His years at Hogwarts as a student had been barely a note on list of exploits. Blasting through previous records with barely an effort, he had never been met with something that had challenged his superior mind. His free time had been used to entertain his friends with promises of grandeur, of dreams and hopes that left them starry-eyed and awed before him.

He had grown up with those kind of looks following him. He had never seen a reason as to why he shouldn't be admired and praised. He was smarter than the rest, why shouldn't he be listened to and acclaimed as the prodigy he was?

He had ruled Gryffindor and had mould himself into the image of his House's Founder, knowing that, with his mind to help him, nothing could resist him. His dreams had been filled with adventures, with his potential to be finally blooming into its well-deserved destiny of grandeur.

He wouldn't talk much about his disgraced father, about his dimwit brother or about the rumours about him having a sister. When asked, he would simply ignore the subject and discreetly change the conversation. It helped that his brother was three years younger than he was and not sociable, and thus very much not among his friends' circles (he had wondered how Aberforth had gotten in Gryffindor, but had ultimately dismissed it as some well-hidden and wasted chivalrous instincts – it was just _Abe_ , after all, nothing important enough to trouble himself with).

Graduating from Hogwarts with all the honours had been expected. Never once before had failure met his path, his well-deserved glory and adventures within his reach.

…until reality had hit him in the face, familial duty calling him back to his home and away from his life's promises.

His mother had died and left him Ariana to care for. Ariana, who had been a burden on their family for so long and who he had never known well, having entered Hogwarts shortly after she had turned four. His summers had been filled with social calls and extra-curricular studies, so he had not given her much of his attention other than to blame her for their father's incarceration. He had been ashamed of her, of how she didn't get better despite their mother devoting all of her time to her.

Six weeks after Aberforth had returned to Hogwarts for his fifth year (and Albus had needed to force him to leave, because _he would take care of Ariana_ and _finish your studies, Abe, you need them_ ), Kendra's good friend Bathilda had knocked on his door and informed him that her nephew was coming to live with her for a while and wondered if perhaps Albus would show him around, since they were around the same age?

It had been easy to lock Ariana in her room after spelling her asleep, and it had felt rather nice to get out of the house to meet someone who wasn't mentally stunted and psychotic. Gellert's company had been fascinating in a way Albus had never known was possible, the meeting of two great minds with similar ambitions and dreams.

So Albus left the house more and more often, leaving their house-elf with orders to keep Ariana fed and comfortable, but to not let her leave her room for anything other than to go to the bathroom. He had figured that it wasn't much different from what his mother had done, because _surely_ the woman wouldn't have spent all of her days inside to care for his retarded sister, and so had not felt much guilt about it. Ariana would have been used to it, why trouble her by changing her routine?

Then, one day nearing the Yule Break at Hogwarts, Albus had come home to hear Ariana's sobs and find the dead body of their house-elf. His sister had had another episode and had killed the elf, like she had killed their mother, and was inconsolable.

Not knowing what to do on the third day of her hysteria that had refused to calm down, Albus had gone to fetch Gellert for his help. His friend had grown compassionated when he had heard about Ariana's attack by muggles, but the little girl had refused his comfort and continued to cry and to refuse to eat. It was only Aberforth's arrival that made her calm down enough so that she wouldn't kill herself.

His younger brother had comforted their sister, before his mood had changed so quickly Albus had felt stunned. The lashing out both he and Gellert had gotten in the aftermath had been a surprise, as never before had Albus seen Aberforth so animated. His ears had rang for hours afterward and Gellert had ran out of the house as Aberforth yelled himself hoarse and threw things at them.

He had once more needed to ship Aberforth to Hogwarts by force. The boy had still managed to convince Ariana to write to him everyday (and Albus hadn't even known that Ariana had _known_ how to write), which had resulted in a few Howlers when his brother had deemed that he was 'failing in his duties' or when he had allowed Ariana and Gellert to interact – he had not understood then why Aberforth had not like Gellert.

Gellert, who had then been Albus' light. Albus had been blind to the true nature of his new friend, had been a fool for falling more and more in love. Seduced by Gellert's free laughter, by his clear eyes and wild blond hair. It was the most painful mistake of his life, but the most beautiful one as well. He hated that he could never regret the time he had spent with the man he had grown to love, despised that despite the disappointment and hurt he had felt that he had never stopped to love him.

It was an obsession. That love would haunt his life until the very end, and because of that he had never been able to forgive himself for allowing himself to be blind to Gellert's fault. He was a genius, he should have known better.

Ariana's death had brought him nothing but heartbreak – he had failed his sister, had lost his lover to the Dark, and his own brother had declared that he hated him. The possibility that he had done all of that to himself, that he had casted the spell to end Ariana's life and had started the series of tragedies of his early life… it terrified him. He wasn't used to making mistakes, to failing in his goals, to having his usual minimal efforts wasted because _it wasn't enough_. It had always been enough, why wasn't it the case anymore? Why was this happening to him? Why did he have to loose everything?

Albus hated being in the eye of a scandal. It was something he had in common with his mother, who had taught him to always appear on his best and to keep the appearances of irreproachability. He had forgotten that for a while, even allowing Ariana's funerals to be a public event in his grief – a petty revenge from his brother, doubtlessly, who had then made a scene at the perfect angle for the Daily Prophet's photograph to take a shot at him having his nose broken.

He didn't heal his nose, deciding to allow his brother to have his temper tantrum – it had the side-effect of making the journalist write an article in which Albus appeared as the wiser and compassionate brother, stewing in guilt for not having saved his sick sister.

It displeased him to act a victim for the rest of the world, but the image of a martyr was better than that of a kinslayer. It helped him rebuild the reputation he had lost during his year of forced exile, something he dedicated his efforts in as he forced himself to forget the tragedy behind him. It was also his first step toward redemption, his goal being to prevent others from doing the same mistakes as him – he needed power and influence, if only to reach as many people as possible and help them see the light.

It worked, at least for a while. His mastery of transfiguration had of course gotten him his old teacher's attention, so it was Albus Professor Switch named as his replacement when the man planned to retire. At barely twenty-three years old, Albus had packed his things and left his house in Godric Hollow to never return. The place held too many painful memories, too many reminders of his failures for him to fully call that place home.

Hogwarts was home. Hogwarts was where he had shone brightly, where people recognized his superior abilities and didn't treat him like he was dirt on their shoes (like Abeforth had taken to treat him like, going as far as running away from him at fifteen and using his inheritance to buy himself a shady building to open a _pub_ of all things). Hogwarts was where he excelled, where no one denigrated his efforts and blamed him for things out of his control. Hogwarts was where he could teach children not only transfiguration but ethic, where he could carefully monitor them so that their mistakes could be constructive instead of devastating like his own. He would be their guide and protector, so that they would not ruin their future because of immature miscalculations.

The first two years of teaching had been trying, mostly because Professor Switch used him as an assistant and insisted on commenting his teaching methods – Albus tolerated it, because being a teacher was a great opportunity for him and not having his old teacher's approval would mean that he wouldn't get the job. But after the old Transfiguration Master's retirement, Albus didn't have to follow his predecessor's code as precisely as before – oh, some advices had been sound and useful, but the older wizard had belonged to another generation and some things were simply better done another way.

Years went by, his life only disturbed by the usual teenager drama, but otherwise peaceful (there were rumours he couldn't help but overhear, of course, but he didn't look too much into them – after all, there could be so many people responsible for the unrest in Germany, it didn't immediately meant that it was _him_ ). The previous deputy headmaster suddenly died from Dragon Pox, leaving the post open and, his fellow teachers acknowledging his superior abilities and that he was the best candidate, he was given the job.

A few years later, Albus met Tom Riddle.

The child was so cold, so _dark_ , it was a miracle that Hogwarts had even forwarded a letter to the boy. The back story given to him by the matron told him that Tom Riddle would be nothing but trouble in the upcoming years, but he couldn't simply leave the child behind – Hogwarts had invited him, and the acceptance letter would simply appear on the child's bedside should Albus refuse to give it to him.

So Albus tried to cow the boy into obedience. If the child could accept his authority, then perhaps he could be saved from himself – the young Tom had only been eleven then, surely the innate innocence of children wasn't completely unsalvageable?

But Albus was too late – or maybe the boy had never had a chance for redemption. The discovery that the child was the Heir of Slytherin… He kept quiet about it, of course. There was no need to give power and influence to the cruel child, lest he used it for his selfish desires and ruined Albus' mission for the betterment of his people.

No matter, he had thought then, the Wizarding World wasn't like the muggle one. The boy would be lost, wouldn't find his bearings until too late, and the magical world wouldn't have to deal with the consequences of a psychopath among them.

Unfortunately, Albus had forgotten that ignorance was just as harmful as wilful malice. Despite being alienated by his own housemates for his origins and by the rest of the school for his tellingly ominous Sorting, Tom never left, never abandoned the alien world of magic for the more familiar one of muggles. It showed a strength of character that scared the Transfiguration teacher, because if the boy could live through social antagonism and come out stronger, then what else could he do? How far would he go to get what he wanted?

The were already rumours of a Dark Lord in Eastern Europe, they didn't need another one in Britain. The Wizarding World moved at a slow pace, mostly due to the long lives of witches and wizards, and they had yet to recover from the damages the muggle war of 1914-1918 had done to them. More than half a hundred witches and wizards had lost their lives for being at the wrong place at the wrong time, and historical and magically powerful sites had been destroyed – which had done nothing for the poor opinions wizards had of muggles.

If the rumours of another world-wide war were true, then Albus couldn't allow Tom Riddle to grow up and add to the conflict. The boy was young and had no idea of what consequences his actions would cause and, considering the darkness in his heart, probably wouldn't care as long as his goals were met. The obvious dislike and cruelty he showed toward those of with muggle origins, despite his own circumstances (and it was only further proof of Tom's amoral thirst for power, leaving the world of his birth behind as soon as he was made aware of his power as a wizard, despising his origins for belonging to the weaker side and having no loyalty for those who had raised him), convinced Albus that the boy would lead another crusade against the muggles. The unrest it would cause would be terrible for Albus' world; wizards would split apart, would destroy each others from within. Like Albus' family had destroyed itself, leaving two broken men – barely brothers – behind.

For the good of the Wizarding World, Albus would destroy Tom Riddle. That his foe wore the face of a child had little importance – it was nothing but a mask, one that had fooled Albus' coworkers, who couldn't find anything wrong with the boy and were awed at his abilities (some whispered that he was even better than Albus at that age, which was simply ridiculous. Couldn't they see that the boy was clouded in evil?). But Albus saw, because he had seen the same darkness in the man he love, only exacerbated in the Slytherin orphan, something he hadn't thought was possible.

Did that meant that Gellert could have been saved? Had he condemned the love of his life to Darkness out of ignorance? Had – no. Gellert had been an adult, he had been set in his ways. All Albus could've done was slow down his fall, and it would have only made their separation more painful, if Albus hadn't simply started slipping in the Darkness along with his lover.

And that was when he discovered his purpose. He wasn't just a guide, to lead people to the Light, but he had to become the keeper of the Light. To protect people from their own mistakes. Self-appointed guardian of the Wizarding World he might have decided to become, but it was for the Greater Good, the one preached by the Germans who, in their ignorance, twisted it to their political advantage.

But Albus, who had seen the world at his lowest and was by far the most intelligent of all, could save them. He only needed to destroy those in whom the Darkness was the worst, so that he could wash the taint off his beloved society.

(If only his brother could see what he saw – but no, he and his devil wife were content living in ignorance and dancing over the edge. Couldn't Abe see how close his spouse was to succumb to the Dark? Why was _Albus_ the one blamed when he only wanted to help his brother?)

Tom Riddle proved slippery and resourceful, though, and escaped Albus' plans no matter how close he had been to end him. Killing was a distasteful thing, so Albus merely attempted to get him sent back to the muggle world, magic bound and made harmless. Where he wouldn't be able to do any wrong – and in a condition in which he wouldn't be able to harm the innocent muggles around him.

But Tom Riddle graduated Hogwarts with an even higher score than Albus had had – something the older wizard justified with the recent discoveries, _of course_ children would score higher if given information their magic knew was right, instead of working through knowledge their instincts knew was wrong.

The war… Albus had tried to stay away from it, but couldn't. To refuse to fight Gellert would have ruined his reputation, would have destroyed all the work he had done to lead people to the Light, and so he had gone. To face the man he loved was probably the most difficult thing he had ever done, and it broke his heart once more to lay his eyes on the Darkness-tainted form of his old friend.

But he won, and gained the Elder Wand. He didn't know how his friend had obtained it, he had not spoken a word to him after his defeat, but such a dangerous artefact could have easily explained why Gellert had been so powerful on the battlefield and why Dark magic had so easily permeate his body. Gellert didn't have the sturdiness of mind to resist the Wand's corruption, his Dark tendencies making it harder for him not to fall to the Wand's seductions. But Albus would keep the Wand, would make sure it hurt no one else, so that the world could flourish without this threat among them. Albus could resist its temptation, because he knew better than to accept power he had not worked to acquire all by himself.

After that, it was easy to let himself be swept by the praises and honours given to him for having ended the Dark Lord, pushing the memories of his duel and of his past in the back of his mind. Some people complained about how he had only acted after the odds had fallen in the Allies' favour, but Albus gently reminded the press that Gellert would have easily compensate for the vanquished enemies, that his loss had destroyed the moral of his troops and that Albus was a _professor_ , not military. He hadn't had any duty to go and save the day, but had done so anyway because it was the right thing to do.

The ten years that followed were filled with the Wizarding World recovering from the war. He helped where he was needed, supported the witches and wizards he saw the most potential in and made sure to temper those who would have cause trouble. He became Headmaster, when Armando became too old and his health started failing. It had taken some insistence for the man to retire (as well as a few Compulsions, but the man was just too stubborn, not noticing how he was taken advantage of by the less morally upstanding students so that they could get away with their misdeeds – he was too old for his job, was ruining Hogwarts with his growing senility, and Albus was the best option anyway, Minerva already groomed and ready to take over his teaching position), but he finally did so, and died five years later, his funerals attended by less than twenty people, Albus included.

And then Tom Riddle came back to England, disfigured from high amount of Dark magic practices and greatly diminished from the smart and secretive boy he had once been. It was absolutely no trouble to turn the man away when he asked for a job at Hogwarts. Albus had even expected that the boy would finish destroying himself with Dark magic in the next few years, having fallen prey to the most terrible magics' allures that most wizarding-raised people knew better than to listen to.

…Albus should have known better than that. Nothing was as easy as it seems, and Tom Riddle self-destructing would have been a gift from the Fates – the latter of which were very much _not_ generous.

Civil war. While Albus wasn't looking, Tom had seduced some of the most talented individuals of their society, building himself an army with those Albus had not managed to correct the way of life. Even some whom Albus had believed were firmly Light exposed their true natures as they dabbled into the Grey and further, spitting on Albus' guidance and mocking his gracious generosity.

The Ministry easily being duped by Tom's cunning if even more sadistic than before machinations, Albus gathered his own troop to fight against those who dared threaten the peace.

Killing was still disgraceful. It was what the enemy did. It took little to convince his people not to attack their enemies with lethal intentions, and they understood that keeping their soul pure and untainted was worth the cost in lives. Some were admittedly harder to convince, those of muggle origins especially (but you had to forgive them, as they had been raised in a world where physical aggression was the only defence, and had yet to think like a true person of wizarding origins).

Things were hard, like all wars were. Friends fell to their enemies, others lost faith and join the other side (or ran away like cowards). People started to loose hope, despite his reminders that he was there for them. Of course, he had to intervene, casting spells that would make sure his people didn't loose their dedication to the cause. You couldn't win a war without soldiers and they had already signed themselves to the cause, so all Albus did was remind them why exactly they had decided to get involved.

That the women among them still got married and even _pregnant_ when they would have been more useful on the field was upsetting, because why were they doing this _now_? They could have gotten all the children they wanted _after_ the war, and they were now only slowing the Order down! They were splitting their focus, thinking about their families and distracting their husbands from their duties!

Of course, Albus' opinion change completely after he had heard the Prophecy. Despite having never had much interest in divination, he knew better than to ignore a possibility of success.

The Prophecy was a sign from the Fates, that Albus' duty in protecting the Wizarding World was on the right path, that they trusted him to succeed. And they had given him a tool to his success, had cleared the path he must follow to ensure his world survived the madness that was Tom Riddle.

Severus overhearing part of the Prophecy mattered little, in the end. The man's pleas for his estranged friend's life were surprising, another sign of the Fates who had made sure to send the right man to spy for Albus' side in atonement for his actions. The man was willing to be saved, despite Albus knowing he would never completely remove the taint from his soul, and so Albus allowed him his attempt at redemption. He didn't trust him where a man should trust his fellow, but Severus had been young and had let himself be tempted by Tom's sweet promises. He had made mistakes, but he had seen the Light and had desired to make amend, even if only for selfish desires.

Albus never told Severus that Lily Potter née Evans would need to die for the Prophecy to become true. To be Tom's Equal, the child had to be a boy, a half-blood and an orphan; he needed to have bathed in the Darkness and have a strength that continuously pushed him forward. And the 'power he knew not' would be Albus, because Tom Riddle had never had Albus' guidance, would probably not have accepted it.

Albus would make sure that young Harry James Potter followed Albus' will and didn't deviated from that path. The Prophecy couldn't become reality without that, and stopping Tom's advancement was more important that the life of a single child that Tom would have killed one way or another. For the Greater Good, Albus would see that Tom's reign came to an end.

That his tool would wear the face of a child was unimportant. The boy would be a mean to an end, the key to Tom's death, and that was that.

* * *

Years later, Albus mourned the fact that young Harry had been bitten by a Basilisk. The venom still ran through his veins despite the phoenix tears and would destroy any potion that stayed in his bloodstream for more than forty-eight hours. Control spells were weaker than potions, needed more frequent care and attention and depended on willpower rather than magical strength.

He noticed it immediately when his latest Compulsions snapped, probably due to Vernon Dursley's death and the trauma it had caused to his nephew (the Prophet's description of Harry's home abuse probably had some truth in it, and Albus agreed that the man's drunken rage could have caused the Compulsions to snap if Harry was scared enough, but Albus had made sure to make Harry care about his family and so attributed it more to shock than fear). Harry's mental state had already been fragile when he had arrived in Hogwarts, probably due to the piece of soul in his forehead, and had only worsened after the application of some delicate spell work and its subsequent destruction.

Harry's mind needed a break, no matter how it complicated Albus' plans, or else the boy would go completely insane. And Albus didn't need a tool who couldn't take care of itself while it wasn't needed. So he had decided to allow him this one year – it was too late to push back his plans with the Tournament anyway.

His only comfort was that Mind Magic directly acted on the other's mind, which meant that altered memories had no chance of being found out unless the target was pro-efficient in Occlumency. Harry would never know of Albus' role in his uncle's death. And, should the worse happen, he could always make sure the boy forgot anything too incriminating.

It was for the good of the Wizarding World. Albus' purpose was to keep his world safe and he would do so, no matter the price.

* * *

 _Phew! It's done! So, how is it? Did you like it? Do you think the way I portrayed Dumbledore is realistic? (In-story realistic, I mean.)_

 _Because I don't really think that Dumbledore is deliberately evil, just delusional._ _Very, very delusional, and morally screwed up. He's kind of pitiful, if you think about it - and then you remember all he did and he goes from 'pitiful' to 'threat to society'. Yeah, nevermind._

 _Anyway, sorry that this isn't a 'real' update. I hope you still enjoyed it._


	18. Chapter 15 : Attack

_Heya, how do you do?_

 _And would you see that - a new chapter! And it's not even an Interlude! Yay!_

 _You might eventually notice that there is more scene skipping than usual. What can I say? It looked pretty._

 _To noulis, thank you for your review. It relieves me that I didn't completely ruined the mood with my little indulgence in bashing - and, be assured, I don't intend to make Dumbledore an evil lord, just a slightly delusional leader with the means and smarts to get things done (Is that a hint about problems in the future? Is it?! Oh my!)._

 _To dra6on, also thank you for reviewing! Indeed, Harry does ramble quite often, eh? I wonder where he got that from... *looks innocent* And please don't apologize for the corrections, English isn't my first language and I do appreciate it. I'll go correct it later (sometime in the future. Maybe. Probably. We'll see). As for Tom's plans... well, it won't hurt to share... He's being patient (a.k.a boring) for the time being, learning and watching to better conquer the world later. He's on vacation, maybe? Like a tour trip. Or a safari! With Harry being the unfortunate tour guide/sad purse chihuaha taken along by its master!_

 _...stopping now. Sorry._

 _I suppose I should be **WARNING** you that the following chapter contains morally ambiguous behavior (as usual), that there are descriptions of torture and of physical and mental damage, some of the sarcasm/mockery/foolmouth-ery this story is majorly written with, and that I don't own Harry Potter. Did I forget something? Oh, right, my expert in latin is called Google Translate. All credits goes to them when I 'create' a spell, in case I forget to mention it again. _

* * *

Harry's weekly routine was soon established and, much to his chagrin, strongly kept from deviating by a sharp-eyed Riddle and his unknowing accomplice, also known as Hermione Granger. His best friend had apparently not appreciated his last-minute pleas for help for that Potion homework also due on that second Monday of September, causing her to keep an eye on what he did when she wasn't busy with her own (still growing) pile of work. Even Ron got swept by the storm, though not having a task-master of a half-soul haunting him meant that the red-head got away with not studying more often. Harry just had to listen to Ron whine about how Harry wasn't fun anymore, to which he would retort that Hermione was scary when stressed, something that the Weasley twins had overheard and teased him mercilessly about whenever they saw him studying with his friend.

They joked about him being infatuated with his best friend, which just made him stare at them with a lost and slightly disgusted face. It had made Hermione laugh, though, before she had whacked him on the arm about getting distracted from his studies – so he had informed the twins that his friendship with Hermione was purely platonic, something no one in the common room had seemed to believe, before deciding to ignore the idiots and return to his Charms textbook.

People had even congratulated him after Hermione had squealed to high heavens after receiving her birthday gift (and hopefully her new charmed glasses would free her time a little, because studying all the time was _tedious_ ), which had not been appreciated. The mane-adorned raven badge he and Hermione had received from the Weasley Twins for being 'Gryffindor's most Ravenclaw members' was equally disdained, with Harry almost asking for a Slytherin-like badge instead just to see people's reactions.

By the end of September, McGonnagall had even stopped by his desk to comment on the improvement of his work's quality. She had looked happy about it too, probably thinking that he had started applying himself more out of some personal desire to succeed. He had thanked her meekly, not saying that the only reason he gave more than a passive look to his textbooks was because he didn't wanted to be tortured come his Occlumency lessons – which were fortunately reserved for Friday and Saturday evenings, as the lessons gave him atrocious headaches and such a schedule allowed him to sleep in until lunch the next day.

Still, Occlumency wasn't the only thing Riddle was 'tutoring' him in. During the summer, the older teenager had instructed him about tactics and social etiquette, not that Harry had shown any appreciation for either, as well as using his mind to play out different scenarios and see how Harry was reacting. His spell repertoire had been deemed insufficient, but the ban on using magic during summer had not allowed him to be taught anything but theory (which he preferred to forget anyway, only remembering the most important points and staring blankly back at Riddle when accused of not paying attention). Now things were different, so one hour each evening were put aside for spell practice – and spell practice _only_ , since Harry had to go hunt down the spells he wanted to learn during the day every time he was deemed competent in previous ones. Riddle simply refused to teach him new spells, justifying himself by saying that Harry needed excuses for knowing them. Because spells were everyday things and Riddle didn't trust Harry not to slip up and use spells he shouldn't have known before witnesses.

Still, Harry would have been more enthusiastic about learning new useful spells had the few he really, _really_ wanted to know weren't so out of his reach. The Patronus Charm would either ask for more happiness than he could give or create Harry-eating maggots from his wand ; most of the truly battle-efficient spells Riddle spoke so fondly of had been deemed Dark in the last fifty years and were now illegal to learn, so Harry had more interests looking for spells he could use openly as to not get arrested for using them and be interrogate about where he had learnt them ; then there was the fact that he utterly sucked at healing people, barely managing to knit the skin back together on a paper cut.

Well, it wasn't like he was _bad_ at healing spells. It was just that, like all magics, intent was important – and Harry was more interested in using the skin-knitting spell to seal a mouth shut rather than healing a wound. He had blamed Riddle for his sudden fascination with gruesome sights, something the wraith had not protested and had even been _amused_ at.

The Slytherin's amusement had faded quickly, though, when October had begun and Oliver Wood had gathered the team for the first Quidditch practice. While Riddle was slowly getting used to following behind Harry as the Gryffindor took his daily fly, he absolutely _did not_ enjoyed the near-suicidal moves Harry tried on the pitch under Wood's fanatical eyes.

That the whole team joined in some sort of 'who's the most reckless' competition – it was a Gryffindor thing, obviously – did not impressed Harry's personal ghost, but Wood looked enchanted and let them out early, which was him saying that he expected such recklessness during games so that Gryffindor could win the Cup.

It was Wood's final year at Hogwarts, after all, and Harry was persuaded that the Seventh Year would do something drastic if the team didn't manage to get in first place with a secure advancement. Not that the team had anything to complain about, other than Wood's penchant for painful training methods – everyone wanted to win, even those who didn't even play Quidditch.

Which suited Harry rather well, because there would simply be too many suspects for what he had planned next. And Harry, as the overly-nice and righteous hero he appeared to be, would be so low in the list that people wouldn't seriously consider him guilty. His 'pranks' were going to be far too cruel for the Weasley twins as well, because he was fond of them and didn't want to ruin their future.

Targeting Malfoy right out of the bat would have been suspicious, though, what with his and Harry's so-called rivalry going on, but Harry had simply worked out a way to get him involved as some kind of side-effect. Not that his 'prank' would spread to others, but, by the time people discovered the truth, it would be too late and the people depending on his target would be terribly let down.

His target was Miles Bletchley, Fifth Year Slytherin and Keeper in the Slytherin's Quidditch team, and Harry would have rather waited until the O.W.L.s were closer to hurt him more, like for two other Fifth Year he had plans for, but it couldn't be helped. The guy was a Quidditch nut anyway, so Harry would have to be satisfied with the second best timing – a.k.a. the night before the first Quidditch match of the year.

Bletchley's offence was to have attempted to make Harry fall from the moving staircase on the third floor after one of Lockhart's detention. The spell had been badly casted, not properly aimed and under-powered (in conclusion, a failure), so Harry's retribution was more for the murder intent than for the spell itself. He had only stumbled a bit upon his landing on the first stair, after all, and had easily caught the banister rail. It would have been difficult to plan something equally ridiculous in return.

And so, Harry's revenge was carefully crafted around the teen's attempt to kill or terribly maim him, Riddle curiously hovering behind his shoulder and humming appreciatively from time to time.

* * *

"Your mind is a very interesting place, you know." Riddle murmured as Harry followed his target, hidden under his Invisibility Cloak. "I cannot even phantom why you would consider this a _minor_ retribution."

Harry would have replied that he could have done so much worse, but he had casted a silencing spell on himself so that Bletchley wouldn't hear him coming. Riddle was just taking advantage of the situation to speak without Harry being able to start an argument.

"Then again, he could have killed you, so it is rather appropriate." Riddle continued. "Such a shame that you cannot give him a hint about why this is happening to him. I have always preferred people aware that they were being punished, even if I'd never tell them _why_ exactly. It's a common trait among serial killers, I think; this desire to have _trophies_ , to leave your mark on your deed so that people knew _you_ were behind it, to scare them into compliance. Are you not glad, Harry? You do not have your usual psychopath's mindset. Maybe you will not get caught, after all."

 _Claudeo_ , Harry cast silently, watching as a blue light hit Bletchley in the back. The Slytherin tripped over his feet, as the spell had intended, and he fell right into a nearby classroom, the door opening under his weight. He was face-first against the ground, where he got stuck, the potion-covered stone making sure the Fifth Year boy wouldn't be able to get away without help.

The next step was easy. After silencing the other teen, Harry took the glass jar he had put in his pocket and opened the lid, making sure that the hundred of small dead spiders inside the thick liquid were properly spelled before smashing the jar on the floor, right next to Harry's intended victim.

Immediately, the dead spiders started to crawl over each others and onto the Slytherin's legs and under his clothes, smearing the cold fear-inducing potion they had been soaked in as they moved. The boy's eyes widened at the sensation and his mouth opened in a silent scream, his struggles growing more and more desperate the more spiders crawled on him. The reanimated arachnids were charmed to bite only, their venom dried out in death so it wouldn't cause any complication, but a few of the lot had been charmed to weave their silk in a few strategic places – like the face (the mouth and eyes only, leaving the nose alone so that Bletchley could breath) and the hands.

Making sure there was no trace of his magic that could be traced back to him, like Riddle had taught him, Harry left the Inferi-like spiders to their job, closed the abandoned classroom's door and returned to his dorm, where he burnt the gloves he had taken from the Room and worked on casting one hundred third-year level spells, to counter the possible use of _Priori Incantatem_ on his wand.

Bletchley was not a prefect and thus wouldn't be expected out of bed after curfew. He would only be found in the morning, if even that, and by then the fear-inducing potion would have probably done a number on the teen, never mind the spiders, so Harry could agree that it was a proper revenge and that they were even again. His target just wouldn't know it, and the Slytherin Quidditch team would suffer from their usual Keeper not being capable of playing after a terrifying night of insomnia.

And Harry was safe from suspicions, because a thirteen-years-old would not be expected to know how to reanimate dead spiders. A failure of a potionner like Harry would never be suspected of having brewed either potion used in the 'prank', but then Harry had made sure to brew something above a Seventh Year's level, with Riddle keeping an eye on him thanks to an honest ultimatum ( _I'm doing this one way or another, Riddle. It's your choice whether I'm blowing myself up or not_ ). The Room had been useful to find how to make Inferi, or reanimated spiders as the case was (because Harry _was not_ at the level necessary to reanimate anything smarter than small arachnids and insects), and he didn't even had to worry about slipping up about his knowledge of the things.

Voldemort had used Inferi during the war, so Harry knowing about the creatures would be explained by his curiosity about the wizard's methods – even if his 'curiosity' had actually been Riddle forcing him to hunt through the Daily Prophet's old editions for information about his other self. Not mentioning that with _Hermione_ as a friend and his well-known curiosity, knowing things he wasn't supposed to know was a given.

When Harry finally fell asleep, it was almost one o'clock. He had until nine to sleep in (because sleeping in until eleven would be suspicious, making people wonder if he had not had a full night of sleep), after which he would have to act as if he had nothing to do with Bletchley's very sad state.

(One down, seventeen more to go.)

* * *

The Quidditch game started easily enough, considering the wind and rain, and Gryffindor scored seven times in the first ten minutes. The replacement Keeper wasn't very good at his job, nor was his broom a Keeper's broom (it was ill-suited for lateral slides, something Wood was gleeful about), so Flint had stationed one of his Chaser nearby to run interferences, leaving only two Chasers to oppose Gryffindor's three.

Harry had just caught sight of the Snitch, a feat when his wet hair kept sticking to his glasses, when he suddenly felt a flare of pain in his scar, immediately followed by Riddle's pained voice echoing in his mind.

 _Leave. Now. They're coming._

It took him less than a second to realise what the teenage Dark Lord meant, but when he did he turned tail and flew away from the pitch at high speed, ignoring the screams of his team and of the students watching the game. They soon turned into screams of horror, so he figured that he was forgiven.

Not that he cared, right now. There was a growing hysteria in his chest, his cold fingers tightening desperately on his broom, with panic increasingly taking over his mind as Riddle's demands turned into pleas and sobs and shrieks of madness. His body was numbing down, already freezing from half an hour in the storm, his vision was darkening and his blood was rushing in his ears, leaving him feeling faint and terrified.

* * *

 _Not Harry, not Harry, please not Harry!_

* * *

The next thing he knew was _hurt_ as his body impacted on the ground and rolled in the mud, something snapping in his leg, but he didn't know what and he didn't _care._ As soon as the momentum stopped, he pushed himself on his hands and knees, ignoring how he couldn't put any weight on his left leg – he crawled desperately toward Hogwarts' protection, panting harshly with burning eyes that couldn't see anything anymore and fighting against the mud slowing him down.

* * *

 _Stand aside, you silly girl… stand aside now._

 _Not Harry, please no, take me, kill me instead…_

* * *

He swallowed something thick and grainy as he fell face first in the dirt, but he didn't waste any time spitting it out. He choke it down and urged his shaking limbs to pull him faster toward the safety of the school's walls, ignoring the painful sparks in his leg or the way his wrist didn't bend in the right angle when his forearms pulled him closer to his goal.

Then his head hit something hard and he collapsed, his whole body screaming to _get up and runrunrun_ _away_. He pushed against the obstacle and tried to make it give in, but it didn't and he couldn't think anymore and held his head in his hands as he screamed and pleaded and sobbed as Riddle shrieked in his head.

* * *

 _This is my last warning…_

 _Not Harry! Please… have mercy… have mercy… Not Harry! Not Harry! Please – I'll do anything!_

 _Stand aside. Stand aside, girl! Avada Kedavra!_

* * *

His spit froze in his mouth and he suddenly couldn't breath, a weight crushing his torso and his heart beating so hard it was as if it was trying to free itself from his ribcage to escape from his pathetically _weak_ body...

…and then the world was a warm and happy place and he felt his body relax in a way that was so unfamiliar that it was uncomfortable. But it was just so peaceful and _safe_ and he sighed, the last of his strengths leaving him, his eyes closing against his will and his body feeling both heavy and light at the same time.

Riddle was also calming down, his lukewarm presence in his mind curling around his brain. The foreign comforting presence nudged at them and Harry slowly opened his eyes, noting with distant humour that his glasses were still on his nose despite everything.

There was a tall silvery-blue wolf peering down at him, mouth open and moving as if to whine or pant, but still silent. Or maybe it wasn't really silent, but Harry didn't seem to be able to hear anything outside of this buzzing in his head.

 _A patronus_ , Riddle informed him mentally, his words half-deformed so it took Harry a few seconds to realise what he had meant. Luckily, the wraith seemed to be in need of a moment before continuing. _A representation of one's joy given form. I never could do it._

Harry wondered if _he_ could, despite his reservations, because having a patronus nearby did all sorts of things to him that he'd do anything for a longer exposure to it. It wasn't as if his life was completely bereft of happiness, for all that it wasn't a nice one either. He had Hermione and Hedwig to support him (and Riddle, he supposed), he had managed quite a few successes that never failed to fill him with pride (and relief and anguish, but pride all the same), and he was feeling rather warm and content right now.

 _It was not enough for me_ , Riddle reminded him and, yes, Harry could recall the teen saying something like that when Harry had first brought up learning the Patronus Charm. _Some people have fallen back to potions to produce the necessary emotions, but even then the patroni are weak and shapeless. I always refused to lower myself to that._

 _I'd rather take the potions than have another episode happen again_ , Harry replied tiredly. Black shapes were coming closer to where he and the wolf were, some still in the sky – on brooms, then.

 _I do not think you – we – will ever have the opportunity to cast the spell if the Dementors come close enough to us that we feel their aura_. _Our fear take over too quickly. We need something that protects us from them all day long. Maybe a runic tattoo_ _ **is**_ _the only thing for us. Amulets would break before a creature such as a Dementor, and you do not yet have the necessary control for wards._

Someone had fallen to their knees in front of Harry, so the younger teen didn't answer and focused his attention on the wand-waving matron. He tried to follow her wand with his eyes, but he didn't seem to be able to muster the energy to do so.

Another concussion, then. Anymore of them and he'd turn into a vegetable.

…then Riddle would be able to take over his body and act like him. Or would he?

 _I would not_ , the teenage Dark Lord answered. _If the brain cannot send the proper signals for the body to move, it is only more taxing on my core. I would tire too quickly for it to be worthwhile. For the same reason, possessing a body dead for more than a few minutes is not recommended._

And of course Riddle would know that.

"…ter? Mister Potter, can you hear me?"

Harry stared at the aged face in front of him. "…iyeasss."

His tongue felt thick and clumsy, how… Ah, right, concussion. He had forgotten.

"Do you hurt anywhere?" Madam Pomfrey was speaking clearly and slowly and Harry would have considered it condescending if his brain was not thankful for it.

"…ma uyist." _Wrist_ , _wrist_ , damned uncooperative tongue and lips. "Leg." Great, a good one. "Ed." Oh, wow, that one came out surprisingly well… had it? Anyway, did anything else hurt? He couldn't tell…

And that was when his eyes rolled in their sockets and he fell boneless back into the mud.

* * *

 _That was karmic retribution for what he had done to Bletchley_ , Harry decided upon discovering the infirmary's ceiling after he woke up. Not that he could see it all that well without his glasses on, but the sense of familiarity was strong enough that he would bet that Madam Pomfrey had given him his usual bed.

His body was all tingly, his left leg immobilised and he felt bloated, a sure sign that he'd been unconscious for a very long time. He was pretty sure that he had soiled himself while flying away from the Dementors, so that meant that he had wasted away in the hospital bed for more than just an afternoon. The noise coming from the outside of the windows informed Harry that it was still storming outside, but he couldn't tell if it was day or night.

He also wasn't feeling cottony or confused like when he was unconscious for a long period, so it couldn't have been too long.

 _I've only slept through the night, hopefully_ , Harry thought, before turning his head toward the standing form of Tom Riddle on his right. The teen was staring at him with his usual polite mask, which was an actually _good_ sign because it meant Riddle felt in control and nothing horrible could have happened if that was the case. Nothing _really_ horrible, he meant, like him being arrested and to be sent to Azkaban. Someone could have had their soul sucked and Riddle wouldn't care much, if at all.

"It is still night time, you have not been sleeping for long." Riddle said in guise of greetings, but again the teen wasn't one for wasting time. He _was_ one for manners and etiquette, but he never truly left Harry's side and there wasn't a code of proper behaviour for teenage Dark Lords being soul-stuck to their supposed arch-nemesis, and, with Harry's own familiarity toward him, the wraith probably didn't care to be overly flowery or polite with him. Which was appreciated, because Harry was more often than not lost about what to say and not to say.

"I really need to take a piss." Harry declared, smirking slightly at the expression Riddle made at his wording. He pushed the blanket off his body, ignoring the shot of pain in his wounded wrist, and used the bed to support himself while lowering his unresponsive leg to the ground. Putting weight on the limb didn't hurt, so he dropped his other foot on the ground and proceeded to limp all the way toward the infirmary's bathroom.

"I cannot see why you would go out of your way to use the most crass language simply to annoy me." Riddle said as Harry's eyes locked on the bathroom's white door, as if he could pull himself toward it more quickly with only the strength of his will – considering he had magic, he couldn't just dismiss it as useless. "What if someone overhears you?"

"Because the faces you make are hilarious." He helpfully explained, as if Riddle's commentary had not been a complain in disguise. "And that's hardly the worst I've heard, even at Hogwarts. Your sensibilities just need some toughing up."

"I was raised in an orphanage." Was the plain retort. "My 'sensibilities', as you call them, are non-existent."

"That's two of us, then." Harry snarked, sighing when his hand closed on the handle and twisted it open. There was two minutes of silence during which Riddle did his best to look elsewhere while Harry did his business, the both of them too used to this for any of the early awkwardness to have remained.

Then Harry was back in the hospital bed, sparks of pain he recognized as the Skelegrow's influence starting to erupt in his body. His fall had probably caused all sorts of small breaks in his bones on top of hurting his wrist and leg, but considering that he was sure the height would have killed a muggle…

"I have decided." Riddle said with finality in his tone after Harry was safely back under his blanket. He gave his personal ghost all of his attention, apprehension filling his guts at the look of mild irritation on the older boy's face. "The Dementors are more of a problem than I thought they would be, and I have to agree with you that acting like your usual Gryffindor would not allow you to drop out of Quidditch, especially not considering that Dumbledore has declared the whole thing secure again. We will suspend our lessons in favour of focusing on your personal research on adaptable runic tattoos. I expect that we will have at the very least the basis figured out before the new year."

Harry stared, and then stared some more. "I'm not going to have any free time until it's done, am I?"

The condescending smile Riddle gave him in return made him groan and bury his face in his pillow.

Fuck. He'd deal with that information in the morning – acting in denial for a little bit longer wouldn't kill anyone.


End file.
